


Peony and Silver

by missmungoe



Category: One Piece
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, F/M, Pre-Series, and Roger is a terrible wingman (by which I mean the greatest), how-they-met fic, in which there is a lot of trouble
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8718454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: 40 years ago, they were both pirates. And 40 years ago, Shakky washed her hands of all of it.Well—almost all of it.





	1. shakuyaku

**Author's Note:**

> I've been itching to do an origins story for these two for ages, and finally got around to writing it. Set ca. 40 years before the start of One Piece, and will be following canon events as we know them - with the occasional artistic liberty sprinkled in for good measure because there really isn't a lot of information to be found on this period, or these characters. 
> 
> Age-wise I'm putting Shakky in her early/mid twenties here. Rayleigh is in his mid-thirties.

The day they first met, she’d just robbed a bar.

She hadn’t meant to commandeer the place — not at first, anyway. She’d meant to ask for a drink and whatever news the barkeep had to offer from abroad, but then he’d looked her up and down, a grin plastered on his face too openly leering to be anything resembling polite, and addressed her like some silk-gloved little thing who’d gotten herself lost in the wrong neighbourhood.

She wasn’t easily offended — you couldn’t be a woman and a pirate these days and pounce at every condescending remark, there’d be no time left in the day for anything else. _You have your father’s calm heart, Shakuyaku,_ her mother had always told her, although Shakky had never actually met the man. But the sentiment held some truth; she’d never had much of a temper.

Of course, she’d also been told her distinct lack of a temperament was the more terrifying alternative, and she’d mused over the fact as she'd watched the barkeep pick up his feet, a newly lit cigarette perched between her lips and her own feet propped on the bar-top. The only other customer who’d been present when she’d walked in had followed suit, quietly leaving his money on the table where he’d been seated, and she’d saluted him with a drink, the barrel of her pistol resting calmly by her crossed legs. She hadn't even loaded it.

No one had walked in after that, and so she’d made herself comfortable — had poured herself another glass, and helped herself to the cash behind the counter. There hadn’t been a lot; a few thousand berri only, but she’d rooted out an old vintage from the lower cupboard that would have fetched a hefty price, if she hadn’t decided to have a taste.

She’d just lit a new cigarette when she caught sounds coming from outside — a tumble of rowdy laughter drifting down the alley, followed by the door swinging open to let in a group that screamed _pirates_ from a mile away, and that barring the fact that they were all ostentatiously dressed the part.

“Nice joint, nee-chan,” one of them commented, eager gaze raking over her form with blatant appreciation, although not the unkind sort. “You run this place by yourself?”

Shakky grinned around her cigarette, letting her feet drop from the counter. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

“Not a lot of customers today?”

“Seems to be a slow one,” she mused, leaning her weight on the counter. They were young — or at least the most eager ones were; the ones who looked fresh off the boat, and ready to spend whatever small percentage of their latest haul had been granted them. Boys, most of them, although Shakky supposed she wasn't much older.

"Well we've got to change that." The pirate who’d addressed her flashed another charming smile, and she heard the coins clinking together as he lifted a purse filled to bursting. “First round’s on me! That okay with you, Captain?”

He’d directed the question towards someone at the back of the room, and Shakky followed the line of his gaze. And she was careful not to let her expression give her away when she realised quite abruptly that she knew the face that belonged to the captain in question.

Gold Roger, the up-and-comer whose reputation all the blues were buzzing with.

Her eyes found another face then, amidst the older pirates having taken their seat towards the back, at the same table as the captain. The first mate, she decided a moment later, taking in the strawberry blonde hair gathered at the nape of his neck, and the glasses perched on his nose. Not a face as prominently pictured as his captain, but very little that made its way into the paper escaped her notice.

 _Silvers Rayleigh,_ she mused, connecting the name to the face. He was watching her from across the room, his expression yielding nothing, although Shakky had the distinct impression that he hadn’t been fooled by her charade.

Oh well. She’d make a bit of extra cash and slip out the back. What was he going to do, report her to the marines?

The evening progressed without a hitch, and no one seemed to find anything amiss with her barkeep-skills — or lack thereof. She lit herself another cigarette, and poured a few more drinks; put on her extra friendly smile as she slid the glasses across the counter, and knew from their earnest gratitude there’d be generous tips waiting. There was a whole group of them gathered at the bar now, eager to talk and even more eager to please. And plied with alcohol they were more than willing to share, Shakky discovered – news and stories, rumours and hearsay from all corners of the four blues. She listened attentively to it all, offering little but the occasional, thoughtful hum as she refilled their glasses, and tried to keep her gaze from drifting towards the one she felt, observing her from across the room.

And this was what she lived for, really —  _information_. Usually she had to go through a lot more trouble to get even a sliver of what they so readily served her now, some of which she was dimly aware they really shouldn’t be offering so casually, and she devoured it all with a hunger that had lost all appetite for drink. She needed to keep her mind clear, after all.

Of course, Gold Roger’s crew didn’t seem to be of the same idea, and it had been a good few hours when it became clear to Shakky there was nothing more useful to be coaxed from those eager tongues, now thick and awkward from one too many glasses. And for all that he’d been watching her all evening, the first mate hadn’t come up to the bar, or even moved from his seat, although Shakky suspected it was for the best. From the look of him, she doubted he’d have given her much of anything.

It was time to locate an escape route, and with the sweetly offered promise of heading to the back to locate some extra barrels, she’d slipped their payment and their tips into her pockets and herself out the door, all without breaking stride.

The cool evening air was a welcome thing, and dropping the butt of her cigarette to the cobblestones, she'd turned to make her way down the alley when she stopped.

She wasn’t surprised to find him there, standing at the alley mouth like he’d been expecting her, the picture of ease with his calm smile and his hands in his pockets.

“A little early to be closing up,” he said, the low cadence of his voice a pleasant discovery.

She cocked her head. “Depends on what kind of bar you’re running.”

“Or if you’re even running a bar,” he countered smoothly, but if she’d expected anger it wasn’t what she got. If anything, he only looked amused.

Shakky shrugged. “If I had a bar, it’d be cleaner than this. And I’d charge more.”

He lifted a brow, and oh _yes_ — definitely amused. “More than you already did?”

“I doubt I’ve put much of a dent in your treasury,” she supplied coolly, crossing her arms over her chest. He hadn’t moved out of the way, and she considered him now, torn between curiosity and a wariness that always slinked at her heels wherever she went — wherever there were men, pirates and marines alike, who looked at her and saw either easy prey or a damsel to rescue.

She couldn’t tell which of those categories this particular man fell into, but that had never deterred her, and she was good at pushing buttons. The right ones, usually.

“Oh?” she asked then, inclining her head, the gesture deliberately coy. “Something tells me you didn’t come here looking for cashback.”

He didn’t move, not even to correct her, and when she stepped towards him it was at a languid pace, the jut of her hip begging that dark gaze that wouldn’t budge from hers, and she felt an involuntary shiver shoot up her back at the intensity in that look.

But she’d never been one to back down from a challenge, and if he was so willing to offer one, well…

Gift horses and all that.

“What _did_ you come out here for, Silver-chan?” Shakky asked, voice a low purr. “It wasn’t for me, was it? I’d be so terribly flattered if it was.”

She was close now, enough to touch him, and he hadn’t so much as twitched. Emboldened—or simply curious, sometimes it was hard to distinguish between the two—she trailed her fingertips along his collar, and oh he was _tall_ ,broad shoulders at ease under a dark shirt and a loose cloak, and she curled her fingers around the open collar, the gesture keenly suggestive.

“You heard some things you shouldn’t have,” he told her then, and Shakky lifted a brow.

“A good day of business for me, usually,” she mused.

His look was strangely calculating. “And what will you do with the information now that you have it?”

She allowed her fingers to drop, but not without making a show of trailing them down his chest, eyes widening a bit at the strong build she found beneath. _Oh, hello._

But, “I do what I usually do with what I find,” she said, with a shrug of her shoulders. “I keep.”

“You could make a lot of money selling that kind of information to the Government.”

She laughed at that. “If I was in it for the money, Silver-chan, I really would open a bar.”

He looked at her then, that sharp gaze cutting past all her layers with an ease that shouldn’t have surprised her, having already deduced that he was uncannily perceptive. Except it did surprise her, she found, as he considered her closely, before saying, “Knowledge for knowledge’s sake, then?”

Her smile was a careful thing. “I like to be informed.”

She had the distinct impression he was enjoying her answers. “To what end? There’s usually only power in information if you use it.”

She raised a brow at that, and, “You don’t believe that,” she said, before she'd had time to consider the thought, and with a certainty that shot roots somewhere within her. But then she’d always been good at picking people apart.

 _It’s your honest soul, Shakuyaku,_ her old mam’s words again. _And honest souls recognise their kindred._

She watched a smile tug at his mouth. “No," he said. "I don't.”

“Then that makes two of us.” She pursed her lips, making sure her own smile was appropriately shrewd. “Don’t worry, Silver-chan. Your loose-tongued boys won’t spell your doom this day. Like I said—I keep what I find.”

Something nameless flickered across his face then, and she felt her stomach drop—but not unpleasantly. Oh no, this was something else, and she’d barely had time to register the feeling before she’d taken a step forward, driven by that strange, almost playful impulse.

Her fingers curled around his goatee, and she watched his eyes calmly take her in, not so much as a flicker of surprise in them as she tugged his mouth down to hers in a kiss, her free hand reaching for his pocket, and the money-purse she’d already locked her eyes on the moment he’d walked into the bar earlier.

And that was all she’d planned — to steal a single kiss and his money; the first because she wanted to and wasn’t the type to deny herself small pleasures when they presented themselves, and the second because she could.

But then he dipped his head down to meet her kiss with another, and she was so surprised she momentarily forgot to respond, fingers curled loosely around the coin-purse, now tucked away in her own pocket.

Then his hand curved around the back of her neck to tilt her head upwards, deepening the kiss, and despite herself she felt her eyes slip shut at the slant of his mouth against hers, his glasses nudging against her nose when she pushed closer to wind her arms around his neck, her thievery quite forgotten. And he really was a ridiculously tall man, and necking in dark alleys really wasn’t her style, but the hard brick wall against her back was a far-off thought with his thorough and insistent ministrations, and his tongue against hers, dipping into her mouth.

The appreciative sound that dragged from her was an almost indecent thing, but she'd never been shy, and when she felt his answering grin against her mouth it wasn't embarrassment she felt. Quite the opposite.

The flat of his palm against her bare back was a shock of warmth, his fingers slipping beneath her shirt, and she was seriously weighing the possibility of a quickie — he certainly looked strong enough to keep her elevated and off the dirty street — when he suddenly drew back, glasses askew on his nose and some of his hair tugged loose of its cord, courtesy of her thieving fingers.

“You should exercise more caution,” he said then, and the low quality of his voice made it suddenly hard to catch her breath — harder than it already was, and if she’d been of a sounder mind she might have found a surge of annoyance that he didn’t seem quite as affected. “However clever your tongue, you might find there are those who’d rather cut it off.”

It was difficult maintaining her usual cool with her chest heaving like she’d run a mile. And even if he’d issued a warning, “Not you, I take it?” she asked, swallowing thickly.  “Because if that’s the case, you have an odd way of showing it.”

The slight quirk of his mouth was a quietly pleased thing, and she felt the sudden and unsettling impulse to cover it with her own.

He still had his hand under her shirt, and he pulled it back now; Shakky felt the reprieve of it with a loss that dropped down to settle, a tell-tale ache deep in her belly. But she’d felt his own reaction, and quite keenly at that, with the whole of him pressed flush against her, and it was with a small air of satisfaction that she held his gaze now, making a point of not dropping her eyes lower.

He turned to walk away then, seeming to decide no other words were necessary, and Shakky felt the acute need to light a cigarette. Or two.

“Shakuyaku,” she said then, before he’d cleared the mouth of the alley. And when he stopped to glance over his shoulder, the light of the evening sun glinting off his glasses, she smiled. “Now you have some information on me, too. Use it wisely.”

She saw the corner of his mouth lift. “Shakuyaku?”

It sounded like she’d hoped it might, his voice wrapped around the syllables with a deliberateness that really didn’t help that insistent curl of heat in her gut.

“Friends call me Shakky.”

That earned her a raised brow. “Friends?”

She considered him, the broad expanse of his back and his tousled hair. And she resisted the urge to lick her lips, remembering the kiss. “ _You_  may call me Shakuyaku.”

He laughed at that, a deep and lovely sound, and when he turned to leave now her smile was a hard thing to stifle.

She felt—lightheaded. Dizzy, almost, like she'd just knocked back a really potent shot, and it had been ages since she’d been kissed with even a shred of the same fervour. And it wasn’t the sort of information she usually gathered, but she filed it away now, tucked somewhere private, for later perusal.

_Silvers Rayleigh — a damn fantastic kisser._

Running restless fingers through her hair, she pushed a breath past her teeth, along with a soft, almost disbelieving chuckle. That curl of heat still sat, coiled tight in her belly, and she still had the urge to smoke — the kind she usually only felt _after_ sex.

With a shake of her head, she adjusted her shirt and strode off in the opposite direction, away from the light and into the heart of the dark labyrinth of alleyways, the sun dipping down below the slated rooftops as she made for the harbour, the cool breeze welcome against her flushed skin.

She was halfway down the maze of side-streets when she noticed that the purse she’d pilfered from him was gone—along with her own.

Head thrown back and her heart as light as her pockets, she laughed all the way back to her ship.

 

—

 

“Where did you disappear off to?” Roger asked when he returned to take his seat at the table.

Pulling the cord from his hair, Rayleigh gathered it back into some semblance of order. “Just stepped outside for a moment. It’s a lovely evening.”

The bar was still a tumult of noise, and no one seemed to have made note of the fact that their hostess was no longer present. Rayleigh shook his head, but a stray memory slipped in, of dark eyes and that lovely, laughing voice. _I keep what I find._

“You don’t smoke, Rayleigh,” Roger said then, and Rayleigh smiled. Of course, it wasn’t as though he’d thought his captain wouldn’t notice.

“That’s right.”

Roger grinned, but he said nothing else, only pushed a glass towards him, which Rayleigh accepted.

“Hey, where’d the barmaid go?” one of the crew asked. “Shouldn’t she be back by now?”

“You probably scared her off with that last story. You’ve gotta tone down the details, man. I’d make a run for it too if I had to listen to that crap, no matter how big the tip.”

“She looked like she enjoyed it!”

“Pretty dark haired nee-chan, where did you go~?”

Lifting his glass to his lips, Rayleigh knocked it back, feeling the cool burn as it slid down his throat, but the taste did little to wash away the one that still sat on his tongue, with the same, peculiar insistence as the memory of her slender hands buried in his hair. He wasn’t usually one for port-side dalliances, but it was hard keeping his grin from stretching now, thinking of that keen, dark gaze, far too old for her years. Not just another rookie eager to toss her weight around. In fact, aside from her obvious interest in rumours and hearsay above all other things, he hadn’t been able to get a proper read on her intentions.

The fact was...strangely refreshing.

He didn’t even bother trying to stifle his grin now, and he caught Roger’s widening in response, but whatever his thoughts his captain kept them to himself, and silently refilled his drink. And Rayleigh let the din of the room wash over him, feeling the heavy weight of two full purses in his pocket, a soft laugh pulling loose to fog the glass in his hand as he raised it back to his lips, remembering the soft curve of her clever mouth—

_Shakky, eh?_

 


	2. trouble is a friend (but trouble is a foe)

The next time they met, she’d just been shot.

Of course, as she would claim later — and for years to come, long into the future when they were both old and grey — it hadn’t been due any reckless bout of stupidity on her part that she’d first landed herself in trouble, that sunny afternoon on the Loguetown docks. He'd disagree, but then that was his due, Shakky supposed.

She’d been there less than a day, but with her supplies bought and (mostly) paid for she’d been eager to get going again. There were marines about—Monkey D. Garp’s division, and she’d had enough run-ins with the man himself to learn that discretion really was the better part of valour, even if she hadn’t stayed long enough to gather much but an odd rumour or two.

Nothing on Gold Roger’s crew, although it wasn’t as though she’d been looking.

She’d been preparing her sloop for departure when she’d heard it — a voice drifting towards her on the breeze, barely discernible, but she’d caught it.

Pausing in her preparations, Shakky lifted her head and listened. This part of the wharf was mostly abandoned. A good place for a pirate to dock undetected, although it tended to beckon looters for that very reason—the sort who lay in wait for passing ships and gullible captains. It was also one of the reasons she’d been so eager to leave.

She’d almost decided she must have imagined it when she heard it again, and this time it was clear enough to pick out the words.

It was a cry for help.

Shoring her sloop again, Shakky dusted her hands on her trousers before she pushed away from the railing, landing smoothly on the wharf. And stamping out the butt of her cigarette, she made to follow the sound.

It didn’t take her long to track the noise, weak at is was, and it brought her across the wharf, until a wired fence with a padlock stopped her from going any further.

The voice was stronger now, and casting a glance over her shoulder, she plucked a pin from her hair and made quick work of the lock, before slipping through the fence and into what looked like an official section, mostly because it had been warded off, but also because she spied a Government warship moored across the pier. But there was no one around, and so she made her way across, following the voice, now drifting towards her on the salt-tinged breeze, an eerie siren’s call that brought up old traveller’s tales, the sort her mam had loved so fiercely.

The ship looked like a cargo vessel, and it sat, cheerfully inconspicuous under the noonday sun. And if it weren't for the voice, Shakky doubted she would have batted an eye in passing.

She hesitated only a moment, considering her predicament. Out in the open like this, it was highly likely that someone would find her and accuse her of trespassing, which—well, wasn’t exactly _incorrect._ But there didn’t seem to be anyone around; if there had been they would have heard the person calling for help and come looking, surely.

 _Maybe some poor swabbie got himself stuck in the rigging_ , she mused as she strode up the gangway, careful not to make any unnecessary noise. But the deck was abandoned, and there didn’t seem to be anyone about.

A shiver of unease crawled up her spine, and she picked her way across the deck with caution. There were several large crates stacked, as per the usual for such a vessel, although with the lack of guards she doubted they contained anything worthwhile.

Then — the voice again; she could discern that it was a woman's, the words wrapped around a choked sob, and Shakky picked up her pace as she manoeuvred between the crates, her earlier unease back with a vengeance now as she turned the corner–

The sight that greeted her halted her dead in her tracks.

Cages—or the closest thing to it without being ostensibly that, and angled so they faced away from the wharf and the town. And within them were people, men and women of different ages, huddled together in too-small spaces. Ten—twenty, _thirty_. More, probably, but she couldn’t seem to make her eyes focus long enough to count, or to accept what she was seeing.

The woman who must have been calling for help reached through the bars towards her. “Miss—” she croaked, her voice hoarse and broken. And then there were more of them following suit, trembling hands reaching through the bars towards her, and all Shakky could do was stand, rooted to the spot.

“Please—please help—” the woman had her hands curled around the bars, her brow pressed to the metal. “ _Please_.”

Snapping out of her shock, Shakky took a step forward. “What—what is this?” _Prisoners?_ But this wasn’t an official prison ship, and these people—

“Hey,” she said, hoping her voice didn't tremble, but the woman didn’t look up, seeming too tired to lift her head. Shakky dragged a breath through her nose. “What’s going on here?” she tried then, swallowing as she crouched down by the bars. “Can you tell me?”

A hand was grabbing for her sleeve, but the man it belonged to didn’t seem to have the strength to latch on, and Shakky felt nausea roil in her belly. Who were these people?

“Grand Line,” murmured the woman then; the one who’d been calling for help.

Shakky sucked in a breath. “What?” _They’d come from the Grand Line?_

The woman shook her head, as though she’d realised the ambiguity of her statement. “Taking us there,” she mumbled, the words awkward and stilted, as though it took effort speaking them. “Human market.”

Shakky shook her head, hearing the words but unable to string them together into something that made sense.  _Human market?_

She was about to ask her to explain when she heard footsteps running towards, and, “Hey!” a voice called then, making her startle, and she’d turned just in time to hear a gunshot ring out across the deck.

Pain exploded across her shoulder, and she swallowed the startled oath that tumbled off her tongue, the impact of the shot sending her stumbling back, but she’d pushed to her feet before the second shot fell, splintering the wood of the deck where she’d been sprawled a moment earlier.

And with her heart firmly lodged in her throat, she bolted.

Whoever had fired the shots had no companions, and Shakky had time to feel grateful between pushing herself into a dead sprint across the deck, weaving between the crates and with her sights set on the gangway. She heard a voice shouting, but didn't turn back to check as she launched herself over the railing, feet hitting the wharf with enough force to send a shock racing through her, jarring her injured shoulder, although she didn't give herself the chance to so much as stumble. And as she set off down the docks at a run and she couldn’t hear anyone following, she thought she was in the clear.

Then something knocked her feet out from under her, and she was sent careening forward, the cobbled stones welcoming her weight without mercy. She felt her nose take most of the impact, her cheek scraping painfully across the dirt, and she tasted the blood as it trickled past her split lip.

Rolling over onto her back, it was to find a man considering her — not the one who’d shot her, but it didn’t take a genius to figure that they were part of the same operation.

“Going somewhere?”

Pushing up on her elbows was a considerable feat with her shoulder in agony and what she now guessed was a broken nose, from the sheer effort it took to drag air through it without crying out. But, “Oh, you know,” Shakky ground out, and when she swallowed she tasted blood. “Just out for a stroll.”

He didn’t look amused, and she allowed her eyes to glance across the blade strapped to his hip. He hadn’t drawn a gun, but with the way he was considering her, she thought she might have preferred a firearm to the wicked edge of that knife.

“A stroll,” he said, tone entirely devoid of anything, even mockery, although he didn’t move to step closer.

Shakky considered her options — the knife wedged into her boot, and her pistol, left behind in her cabin at the ship. She mentally berated herself for her shortsightedness, but there wasn’t much use to spend a lot of time bemoaning that. It would have to be the knife.

Except that he was watching her as though he was waiting for her to do just that, and she had the distinct impression that if she so much as moved a single muscle, he’d pounce. Not to mention, her shoulder was giving her hell, and she felt dizzy — from blood loss or the knock to her head when she’d gone down, it was hard to say; but in her current state, overpowering him didn’t seem like a likely option. It looked like she would have to take her chances with trying to outrun him, although how she would even get to her feet without him leaping at her with that knife…

As it was, she wasn’t given the chance to make up her mind as something swept across the wharf — a heavy gust of wind followed a sudden pressure bearing down on her chest, like the air itself had solidified, and she watched with morbid fascination as the man who’d looked one second away from pulling his blade on her toppled like a tree, his eyes rolling back into his head as he hit the cobbled stones with the doughy _thud_ of someone who was either dead or thoroughly out cold.

_What the—_

It lasted only a moment, and then the strange pressure was gone, allowing her to breathe again, but she didn’t give herself time to grow complacent as she shoved to her feet, and launched herself forward without a backwards glance.

She ran until the taste of blood in her mouth was enough to make her want to retch, lungs aching and her shoulder feeling like it was on fire; but she didn’t stop until she’d put half a town of distance between herself and the docks, keeping to the side-streets and alleyways as she cut across Loguetown proper and into the darker shadows of the outskirts, and then kept going until she’d lost complete track of where she was altogether. And only when she couldn’t push herself further did she stop, sinking into herself with a string of wordless oaths, head pounding and her stomach threatening to empty its contents into the gutter at her feet. But there was no sound of running footsteps at her back, although it wasn't until she’d waited a solid minute and no one appeared that Shakky allowed herself to relax.

Pressing a tentative hand to her shoulder, she winced, and when she pulled it back it was to find her palm slick with blood. Then she tried touching a fingertip to her nose, but drew back immediately, tears springing to her eyes at the jolt of pure agony that made her see white for a second.

“Shoulder it is,” she hissed as she reached to peel away her shirt, the fabric clinging to the wound, and she swallowed the groan that threatened to slip past her lips.

It wasn’t fatal — the bullet had grazed her collar and wasn’t lodged in her shoulder, but it had taken a good chunk with it and wouldn’t stop bleeding, even as she tried to staunch the flow with the sweater she’d shrugged off, half of it torn beyond recognition and the whole thing soaked through.

She tried to keep her breaths steady, and to take stock of herself — she was alive, for one, and despite the sudden, vicious turn her luck had taken. And she’d stumbled upon something she shouldn’t have, and wouldn’t have made it out if it hadn’t been for...what, exactly?

She wondered if he’d had a heart attack, the man who’d knocked her feet out, but it seemed implausible — the once-in-a-million-years kind of lucky stroke that beggared belief. But there’d been no one else at the docks with her, and even if there had been she hadn’t seen a bullet hit him, or heard a single shot fired. There'd only been that strange pressure in the air, before the man had gone down.

Leaning back against the wall behind her, she sank against the cobblestones, suddenly too tired to move. The urgency that had driven her earlier had bled out of her, along with most of her blood, Shakky felt, leaving her strangely lethargic. Although sleep sounded like a bad idea, even as it beckoned with soothing fingers, tempting every over-wrought muscle into relaxing until she sat, half-sprawled against rough brick and stone and with no more energy left to care.

She felt him before she heard him — the fact was hard to wrap her exhausted mind around, but she opened the eyes she’d let slip closed to find a shadow at the mouth of the alley, the sun at his back, and she knew it was him before he stepped forward and into the darker corner where she’d tucked herself away.

It had been well over a month since their last encounter, and she watched him now, mind struggling to catch up with what her eyes were seeing, but she didn’t have the strength to speak – to offer some witty remark that they really ought to stop meeting like this, or to ask what she suspected now, that here was the reason for her lucky escape, even if she didn't quite know how he'd made it happen.

There was none of the same pressure in the air that she’d felt earlier, but—there was _something_ there, a near-palpable wash of power, although instead of feeling threatening all it reminded her of was the warmth of his hand against her bare skin, and the kiss of his grinning mouth.

He wasn’t smiling now as he kneeled down beside her, and she didn’t know what it was that allowed her to yield when he reached for the sweater she’d used to staunch the bleeding, her own fingers falling into her lap. _Trust_ seemed too big a word for an acquaintance as short as theirs, except she still felt it as he reached up to probe against the wound; a certainty that allowed her eyes to slip shut for a moment, before she blinked them back open.

For his part, Rayleigh said nothing — not a word of comfort, or to confirm what she’d already gathered from the wound, that it wasn’t life-threatening, and that it no doubt looked worse than it was in truth. Instead he let the bundled sweater drop, and before she could ask what he was doing he’d pulled a roll of bandages from his pocket, and without preamble had set about wrapping her shoulder.

“My, aren’t you the boy scout,” Shakky heard herself say then, but her attempted smile was ruined by the grimace that pulled at her mouth instead.

He didn’t look up from his ministrations, hands sure in their movements; not a doctor’s surety, but deliberate and efficient, regardless. He’d done this before, she realised — field-dressings, hasty and without grace, but when he tugged at the bandage to tie it closed it was wrapped securely. He hadn’t hesitated once.

Shakky observed him quietly, and didn’t say anything else for a moment, finding it more interesting to watch his face. His features looked oddly serious, too much for the face she remembered from that evening in the alley all those weeks ago, his mouth quirking with that odd, amused grin.

“You know,” she said then, before the lull could take a turn for the awkward. “I’ve had better encounters in dark alleyways,” she quipped, finding his gaze when he lifted it to hers, and the arch of his brow told her he’d caught the suggestive lilt to her voice. “More talkative ones, at least,” she added.

He considered her where she sat, then flicked his eyes to her wrapped shoulder. Her shirt was torn and hanging off her, but she didn’t have the mind to care about indecency. Not to mention that he’d already felt her up, and quite thoroughly at that, so Shakky suspected there was little reason for her to blush.

“You didn’t strike me as the type to recklessly seek out trouble,” Rayleigh said then, and if she found a trace of disapproval in his voice, it was well concealed.

She cocked a brow. “I don’t make a habit of being shot, no,” she countered. “If that was what you were suggesting.”

He met her arched brow with one of his own, but the rest of his expression was frustratingly unreadable. “And yet here you are.”

She huffed—and then winced. “Just having a bout of bad luck today is all.” She cut him a glance. “I didn’t know your crew was docked.” She would have heard about it — or she might have, if she’d had time to do her usual bar-to-bar haul. As it was, she’d been busy trying to make herself scarce. _And look where that got you._

His expression hadn’t so much as budged, and she had no idea what he was thinking, but, “The captain makes the occasional stop here,” he said at length, although without any further explanation.

Shakky hummed. “A stroke of luck that our paths should cross, then. I was just leaving.”

Something strange passed across his face at her words, but what he said next wasn’t what she’d expected. “I don’t hold much faith in luck.”

“Oh? What would you call it then? Fate?” She allowed a humoured smile to grace her lips.

But he said nothing to that, and she blinked, and was about to ask him if that was actually what he thought when he lifted his hand to her face.

She flinched bodily, but all he did was touch his fingers lightly to the bridge of her nose, swollen beyond belief now no doubt, and Shakky didn’t want to think about what it looked like. Or what she looked like, the whole of her, half dressed and drenched in her own blood.

His eyes were hard and dark behind his glasses, and it was difficult dragging her own away as he ran his thumb across her cheekbone; a single, smooth arc that made her breath catch quite despite herself.

“You should stay out of trouble,” he told her then, but didn’t let his hand drop. She felt the touch of his fingers against her hair, loose about her shoulders now, and caked with dried blood.

There was something keenly intimate about the whole exchange, but different than the last time they'd crossed paths—a more potent sort of intimacy that she didn't know what to do with. It made her chest feel suddenly heavy, as it had at the wharf earlier, like there was a vice wrapped around her ribcage.

She swallowed, and tried for a coy smile. “Worried about me, Silver-chan? I'm touched.”

His hand was large against her face, as the whole of him was large against her, towering even as he kneeled at her side, although for some reason it didn’t make her feel small. He wasn’t the sort to make people feel small, and she didn’t know where she’d gotten that impression from, having only met him twice, but it sat in her mind now and refused to budge.

He allowed his hand to drop then, and she felt the reprieve of his touch like a physical thing. “The sea has enough trouble for those who don’t go actively looking for it,” he said then, and something about the way he said it made Shakky wonder if he knew just what she’d stumbled upon on that cargo ship. But she didn’t ask, even as the words sat, perched at the back of her tongue, sour like bile.

“I’m a big girl, Silver-chan,” she said instead, and would have shrugged her shoulders if one of them didn’t feel like it might fall off if she did. “I can take care of myself.” Although even as she spoke the words she felt like dragging them back. They sounded distinctly like something a child might say.

But if he thought the same he was courteous enough not to point it out. Instead he rose to his feet, and Shakky followed the movement with her eyes, gaze sketching the broad outline of his shoulders, and the arch of his nose. His glasses caught the light of the sun, and for a moment she couldn’t see his eyes.

Then he turned to leave, and for some reason what she felt wasn’t embarrassment but _regret_  — a strange, insistent ache, and suddenly she couldn’t help the thought that sprung to her mind, that if she let him walk away without another word it would be the last time.

"Ray-san," she said, and realised a moment too late that she'd forgone the nickname; but if he'd noticed he didn't let on, only paused in his tracks, inclining his head to look at her.

And, “Thank you,” she said then, quietly. And she didn’t specify just what she was thanking him for. For patching her up, or maybe for his help at the docks earlier, and she knew it was his doing; there wasn’t a sliver of doubt in her mind now, watching him.

But the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth told her it didn’t really matter which it was, and when he gave her a nod of acknowledgement, she ignored the small flutter it sparked, somewhere behind her breastbone.

Then he was gone, and she mulled over his words as she sat there, her back against the wall and her shoulder throbbing with cheerful reminder. And she realised she must have given him the impression that she was far more reckless than she was in truth, except that when she tried to shrug it off, the thought lingered with surprising persistence.

He was right — she should stay out of trouble. After all, she travelled alone; she had no one to aid her should the need arise again. And even if she wasn’t a living magnet for it, that didn’t mean trouble wouldn’t find her. As it had found her, and she sat now with her souvenirs — the pretty path of a stray bullet carved into her skin and a thoroughly broken nose, and it could have been worse, still. She could have been dead. And that was deterring enough for most people, Shakky suspected.

Except she couldn’t stop thinking about of those cages, and the arms reaching for her through the bars. Those desperate, sunken faces staring out at her from the dark.

And the eyes, burrowing into her mind now as she sat in the gentle shadows, Loguetown's noise and bustle an echo at the edge of her hearing, and an ache in her chest that had nothing to do with her petty wounds and scrapes.

 

—

 

In the end, she didn’t stay out of trouble.

In fact, she went right up to trouble’s doorstep and knocked.

After he’d left her in the alley she’d gone back to her ship—had washed up and downed a shot to help with the pain. Then she’d downed another at the sight of what her nose looked like, and a third because she was on a roll. And when she'd no longer felt like death incarnate she’d dragged herself off the ship and gone in search of a clinic.

There were a few illegal joints scattered about Loguetown, popular with pirates and people of otherwise ill-repute who wanted to avoid the hospital, and Shakky knew enough about their respective businesses to pick the lesser evil, and forked up an outrageous sum without complaint before she was ushered into a less-than-sterile room by a no-nonsense medic with a death grip and not a shred of maternal instinct in any of her bones.

But she'd set her nose without hesitation; had cleaned and bandaged her wound, and given her something for the pain that packed a much better punch than brandy. And then she’d ushered her back out without another word, head a little dizzy on her shoulders, but at least she could no longer feel her nose with every breath.

And she should have gone back to her ship, Shakky knew. She should have put Loguetown behind her and set her course for gentler waters. It would have been the sensible thing to do, and maybe the woman she’d been when she’d woken up that morning would have done just that. But the woman who’d stumbled off that cargo ship was not the same as the one who’d rolled out of her bunk that morning, and so instead of going back to the docks, she did what she did best.

She gathered intel.

It didn’t take long — just a jaunt through Loguetown's seedier taverns, a bit of cleavage flashed to hurry things along and a coy smile slipped in with a handful of cash, and she’d gotten all she needed.

It wasn’t a Government ship, they told her. _Although_ , they’d added meaningfully, and with looks exchanged that held more than their words, and that was all she’d needed to know, really. She wasn’t naïve—she knew there were things that went on that the World Government turned a blind eye to; knew about various smuggling rings in each of the four blues, but she’d assumed the merchandise was of another sort. Weapons. Liquor.

A child’s assumptions, she realised now. And perhaps she was a bit naïve, after all.

She couldn’t take the matter to the marines; at the very least, she wasn’t gullible enough to think that would get her anywhere. But she couldn’t just leave it be, either, remembering the cages, and the people, pushed together in that cramped space like cattle headed for the market — or worse, the slaughterhouse.

_Sorry, Silver-chan. Looks like I'm going to have to ignore your advice._

It was dark by the time she retraced her steps across the wharf, headed towards the wired fence she’d passed through that afternoon. Someone had fastened two new padlocks to it now, but she’d removed them both in a matter of minutes, and with the ship in her sights, she’d straightened her back and set off towards it.

Her shoulder was aching again, the painkillers having worn off some time ago, but she shoved the discomfort down as she made for the gangway, pistol loaded and ready. And she kept to the shadows, mapping out the length and width of the deck in her mind — the distance between the crates, and the number of people she could pick out. Two of them now, judging by the sound of footfalls across the planks. It seemed a curiously small amount for such an operation, although it might be that whoever was in charge thought keeping fewer guards posted would attract less attention.

The first one she took down soundlessly, a headlock that had him sinking in her grip, and she’d made her way towards the second before he’d had time to hit the deck. And this one didn’t even have time to register her presence before she’d knocked him out cold, making sure to remove the bullets from his gun, before she thought the better of it and tossed it overboard.

Then she did a last sweep of the deck, making sure there was no one left that she’d missed, before making her way to the cages.

They hadn’t seen her coming this time, although some of them looked too tired to be startled by her sudden appearance. There was at least forty people that she could make out, divided into two cages, and she made quick work of the lock now, nimble fingers certain and her mind set on the task before her as she tried to ignore the confused murmurs from within. The smell of sweat and fouler things was enough to make her gag, but she kept her expression neutral as she pushed the first door open, the whine of the hinges a shrill, keening sound in the quiet. But no one came running, and she’d made for the second cage before she’d had time to draw breath, heart hammering against her breastbone, and despite her almost detached calm she couldn’t keep her hands from shaking now.

When at last she’d gotten the door open she turned back, only to find that most of the people in the first cage hadn’t made any move to leave. Only a few had stepped out, and were watching her now, as though unsure of how to proceed.

“Go,” Shakky said, stepping up to the first, a man whose face was so gaunt and drawn she couldn’t place his age. She gave him a gentle nudge, but when he didn’t budge, she reached out to grip his shoulder, the action making him start — as though the contact was enough to drag him back from wherever his mind had wandered. “If you don’t go now they’ll be back and they’ll catch us all. Do you understand?”

He nodded slowly, as though he had trouble understanding, but she saw in his eyes that he did — that near imperceptible hardening of a desperately tired gaze.

“Okay,” Shakky said then, giving him another nudge, before turning towards the rest. “All of you,” she addressed them, the words awkward in her mouth, but she didn’t know what else to say. “You need to leave. Find somewhere safe, or somewhere to hide.  _Now_.”

It took them a moment, and some were quicker to catch on than others; but then they were shuffling away, some of them helping each other across the deck of the ship, and she was about to follow suit when she noticed a small shape, huddled against the bars inside the first cage.

“Hey,” she said, kneeling down beside it. “Are you—” But when her hand made contact with skin she drew it back, and— _dead_ , she thought, realisation dropping like a stone in her gut, at the same time that she felt her heart leap in her throat.

And then she recognised her—the woman who’d called for help earlier, and who’d drawn her towards the ship.

She felt suddenly cold all over, like all the blood had frozen in her veins, and that she was the one who was dead in truth, not the woman huddled against the bars now, stiff with death. She’d once heard someone say the dead looked like they were sleeping, that they were at peace, but at that awkward angle, curled in on herself in her dirty shift, there was nothing peaceful about her, Shakky thought.

And she’d been alive earlier, she knew, with a terrible weight of realisation. A few hours ago she’d still been alive, and maybe she would be now if she hadn’t been—if she’d been _quicker—_

She lost track of how long she sat there, alone on the empty ship. The other slaves—and _slaves_ , that was what they were, she was certain of that now—had scattered, and hopefully hadn’t been caught again, but even as she knew she should make herself scarce, she couldn’t find the strength to lift herself up.

Footsteps behind her then, heavy on the planks, and she lifted her head to see who’d come. The slavers, probably, and if her luck had decided to abandon her completely it would be the man from earlier who’d broken her nose, back to finish the job.

But it wasn’t him, or even a slaver, and as she took in the towering shape and the uniform—and the familiar disapproval etched in every taut muscle—Shakky felt, inexplicably, like laughing.

“Monkey-chan,” she purred, but it sounded hoarse to her own ears. “Caught up with me at last.”

Oh yes—her luck had thoroughly abandoned her, there was no doubt about that.

But Monkey D. Garp said nothing, and if she’d expected to be slapped in handcuffs, all that met her was silence. And when she inclined her head to look at him it was to find an expression on his face she'd never seen before.

She knew his anger — was often the direct cause of it, and she knew what it felt like to be in the direct path of that earnest bluster. But there was none of it to be found on his face now, his features thrown in shadow and looking graver than she’d ever seen him.

He glanced across the empty cages, and then back to her, and for a moment Shakky wondered what he’d say. From the look on his face he was well aware of what had transpired, but she didn’t have it in herself to feel anger that the marines could _know_ and do nothing. She was too tired for fury, like every ounce of her strength had been wrung from her bones.

Then, “This your handiwork?” he asked.

That gruff voice was the same as she remembered, and there was anger in it, Shakky found, but it was a different sort than what she’d expected.

But, “Yes,” she said, lifting her chin, and despite the fact that she was too tired to move, she had enough strength to look him in the eye. If he was going to haul her off in chains, at least she’d keep a shred of dignity.

Garp considered her for a long moment, brows furrowed above eyes she couldn’t quite see through the dark, and the lull was a heavy thing, pressing down on her shoulders.

Then he turned on his heel, and without another word, left her where she sat, blinking into the night.

It took her a moment to register the fact, watching his retreating shape; the white of his shirt lit by the moon hanging above, and the bold black script reaching back towards her through the dark.  _Justice._ It felt like mockery, although Shakky wasn’t sure just who it was meant to mock.

And she didn’t know what to make of his actions, but it had been enough to snap her out of her daze, although it was with effort that she pushed herself to her feet now, as though she couldn’t quite figure out how to use them. Her shoulder hurt, a steady, insistent throbbing, but the pain was a welcome distraction from the shape that sat against the bars directly opposite. Whoever she'd been, that woman wouldn’t be getting up to leave, even though her cellmates had long since disappeared, and the fact sat like dark thing in her mind as she made to cross the deck.

She’d had enough of this day, and she wanted nothing more than to retire—but not to her ship. No, she wanted somewhere _loud_ , somewhere with people, and talk she could hear through the walls to keep her company into the late hours. She needed to hear people laughing, and arguing, and the secret, sordid affairs only cheap port-side inns could offer.

There’d be no sleep for her tonight, Shakky knew, and so she might as well exploit the opportunity.

But she didn’t get far — only to the bottom of the street leading from the wharf directly to the town centre, and she’d just turned the corner when something struck against the back of her head.

When she opened her eyes again she was on her back, staring up at the ceiling of a ship’s cabin. Her head throbbed painfully, and she had trouble gathering herself. Her fingers seemed beyond her control, and every limb felt too heavy to lift.

Above her, someone was talking.

“This the one that let them out?” a gravelly voice asked, rough like stones grating together.

“Yeah, that’s her,” another replied, this one younger and smoother. “Caught her sniffing around earlier, but she got away.” Something nudged against her bandaged shoulder then, and despite herself, a cry tore from between her clenched teeth. “Managed to land a parting shot, though. Sorry about the shit aim—bitch caught me by surprise.”

“Don’t be,” the first voice said. “Better she’s alive, actually. She’s what, twenty? Hell, I can’t tell in this light, but she’s pretty. Once the nose heals, she’ll fetch a good price. The young ones always do.”

The words seemed far away, as though they weren’t talking about her, but she still felt them, pressing down on her chest like a weight on her heart, although realisation was slow in settling.

A hand fisted in her hair then, dragging her head up, and she blinked her eyes to adjust her vision as she found herself staring into a hard, humourless face. “Awake, are you? _Tch_. Tougher than you look, I’ll give you that.”

She meant to offer a remark to that — or a smile, maybe. Certain gruff types were particularly receptive to sweet smiles, but the muscles of her face refused to obey her commands, and all she managed to do was stare back blankly.

He dropped her then, and her head knocked back against the floor with enough force that she felt the jarring shock of it through her whole body.

“Put her in with the rest,” that gravel-dark voice said, tone matter-of-fact but tinged with exasperation, as though talking about an unruly pet.

Her chest constricted, and she didn’t know if it was fury or grief that shoved its way up her throat, but all she could seem to manage was a hiss as arms reached down to lift her up without care or ceremony.

And all she could think of as she was carried away was Silvers Rayleigh’s voice, the deep drum of it an odd comfort, even as the words stumbled over each other, bleeding together until she couldn’t tell if it was a memory or if she’d conjured it herself—

_You should have stayed out of trouble, Shakuyaku._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Few sure details to be found about the state of the OP world at this particular time, but I think it's safe to assume the human market existed before Doflamingo got his hands on it - if not on the archipelago, then somewhere else on the Grand Line.


	3. bent, not broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An enormous thank-you to those of you who left comments on the first two chapters - you all collectively made my whole weekend with your kindness, and I was so giddy this part practically wrote itself.

His arrival back at the ship didn’t go quite as unnoticed as he’d hoped.

“So,” Roger said, gaze entirely level with Rayleigh’s, although he wasn't even trying to hide the smile stretching along his mouth. “Interesting shore leave so far?” The downward slant of his gaze was brief, but also painfully deliberate.

Rayleigh didn’t need to glance down at himself to realise there had to be blood on his shirt, and enough to have prompted his captain’s notice.

But, “Just a little trouble,” he said, finding in the remark what felt like a shared joke, even as the memory of her injuries made the words feel heavy on his tongue.

He’d come across her by accident—well, for the most part. He hadn’t known she’d been in town, and had been biding his time waiting for the others to finish replenishing their supplies when he’d _felt_ her—her presence lashing out with enough potent fear that it’d struck like a physical slap.

It hadn’t taken him long to track her down, and just in time, for all that she’d claimed she could take care of herself.

He thought back to what she’d looked like, sprawled on the cobblestones with her broken nose, and that stubborn defiance sitting tense in her slender shoulders. And maybe she would have found some way out of her fix on her own, but when he’d caught the slaver’s fingers twitching towards the hilt of his blade he’d reacted without thinking, haki lashing out, an instant response.

Strange, that. He wasn’t usually one for split-second decisions. That was his captain’s forte.

Roger laughed then, no doubt realising he wasn’t getting anything else out of him, and the sound dragged Rayleigh out of his quiet musings. “One of these days, Rayleigh,” he said, giving him a clap on the shoulder. “I’ll be expecting that story.”

“And which story would that be?”

But Roger only grinned, and with his laughter drifting back left Rayleigh standing by the ship, along with the impression that his captain had picked up on far more than he’d let on.

He’d retreated to his cabin after that, and hadn’t spared Shakuyaku any more of his thoughts. Well—no more than the curiously persistent question of whether or not she’d made it back to her ship. And those were the thoughts that had chased him off to sleep, which he suspected was part of the reason he’d woken well before dawn, breath catching and with the feel of her imprinted on his fingertips, and the trill of her pleased laughter curling around his ear.

And of course, his body’s undeniable reaction, which had left him laughing into the dark.

It really was a predicament better suited green sailors who’d gone too long without shore leave, and he remembered what that had been like, despite the fact that it was a good fifteen years since it had been much of a problem. But it was hard shaking the thought of her now, in the muted dark of his cabin where he found in every shadow the fall of her hair, and the memory of what it had felt like, wrapped around his fingers, along with the rest of her, the latter a memory of his own make, maybe, but that didn't make it any easier to forget.

Roger would have had a good laugh if he’d known, Rayleigh suspected, and resolutely decided that his best friend could do without this particular bit of information. Although despite the fact that it was a thing better left alone, when morning rolled around he left his better judgement on the ship and set off down the wharf.

They were scheduled to depart at noon, but while the others bickered over a half-filled larder and deck-hands who hadn’t returned from their late night drinking binge, he’d quietly slipped away, although even as he had his destination in mind he couldn’t quite put his finger on _why_ he’d decided to pursue it. Perhaps it really was to check if she’d made it back to her ship, although she should have had no trouble, and he’d accounted for all her injuries when he’d left her in the alley. What was far more likely was that it had something to do with the persistent memory of that smile, curling along a split lip. The gratitude in her eyes, offered verbally and with more candour than he’d expected.

Of course, whichever it was in truth Rayleigh doubted she’d demand to hear the reason. She’d seemed entirely at ease with his appearances thus far, however out of the blue, and so it was entirely likely that she’d only offer him a glance, a drink, and a lighthearted quip that for once they’d opted out of the back-alley scene.

The thought lured a smile to his face, and there was a nagging suspicion at the back of his mind that he was wilfully pursuing something that was far more than a portside dalliance, but he dragged his attention away from the thought as he rounded the corner to the section of the Loguetown docks most sailors avoided.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that she’d taken her chances here.

The little sloop sat, shored to the wharf and bobbing gently in the water, but there was no sign of her anywhere — not in the immediate vicinity at least, and he knew the particular signature of her presence as well as he did the rest of his crew.

Something like unease coiled in his gut, a decidedly ill-portentous feeling as he reached beyond himself, closing his eyes as he searched the winding streets for any sign of her, but coming up short.

Then, another presence asserted itself, strikingly familiar, although compared to the calm caress that he’d been looking for this felt more like a bare-knuckled punch.

He didn’t acknowledge it, even as he caught the sound of approaching footsteps, and it wasn’t until he heard them come to a stop that he turned to address the marine who'd halted a stone’s throw away, dark brows furrowed above a sharp, near-accusing gaze, and with his mouth pressed in a severe line.

“Garp,” Rayleigh said calmly, and tried not to smile.

The glare didn’t lessen. “Silvers.”

A pause followed, long and laden, and in which Rayleigh became acutely aware of the fact that Garp hadn't even tried to slap him in handcuffs — or land a punch, and it was usually one or the other where he was concerned. Stand-offs with Monkey D. Garp weren’t conducted in silence, either, and as the seconds ticked by and he still hadn’t made to open his mouth, Rayleigh felt his smile drop.

Garp cut his eyes to the sloop behind him then, and Rayleigh tracked the path of his gaze, wondering what he might say, even as his earlier suspicion that something was wrong came rearing back full force.

Then Garp pulled something from his shirt, and holding it out — “You familiar with this one?” he asked, proffering the wanted poster.

He recognised her at a glance — the dark mass of hair framing a deceptively innocent face, and the clever smile that broke the illusion, staring back at him from the sheaf of paper. Not a particularly big bounty, but then she hadn’t struck him as the type of pirate who cared about that sort of thing. Nor one that actively sought out reasons for the Government to raise it.

 _Although_ , the sliver of doubt crept in, thinking back to how she’d looked in that alley, and the near rebellious defiance that her breezy remarks hadn’t quite managed to conceal.

“Our paths have crossed on occasion,” he answered at length. He doubted Garp would care much about the association; pirates were pirates, whether or not they were in cahoots. Not to mention that their particular association was…difficult to explain.

He wondered why Garp was even interested, but before he could ask, “Caught her liberating a slaver yesterday,” he said. “Not her usual scene—and not my division,” he added gruffly.

Rayleigh said nothing to that, although it was difficult keeping his expression neutral. He knew she’d stumbled upon a viper’s nest of an operation on those docks, but he hadn’t thought she’d go _back._ In the state he’d left her in he’d figured she’d make it back to her ship, but little else.

But he remembered again the look on her face, the haunted quality to those dark eyes that had been glazed over with pain. And she was young — a good decade or so his junior if not more, and he doubted she’d seen much of the sea in the short time she’d been a pirate. And perhaps he hadn’t given her enough credit. Or perhaps he’d simply forgotten how strongly young hearts reacted to acts of injustice.

“Should’a taken her in,” Garp said then, the words deceptively casual things, matter-of-fact to anyone else’s ears—a marine’s duty, to capture criminals—although Rayleigh heard quite keenly what he was really saying.

Something hard and cold had come to settle in his chest, and the abandoned sloop behind him loomed suddenly large at his back. “You think they got her.”

Garp’s expression didn’t budge. “Found some of the folks she set loose. Suspect they caught the rest.” A pause, and then, his features darkening with meaning, “No trace of her, though.”

There was something curiously unreadable in his gaze as he said it, but Rayleigh found it difficult to think beyond the scenario that had been put at his feet, remembering the slender shape curled against that brick wall, and the gentle quality of her humour, offered in spite of the pain that had pulled so earnestly at her features. The sudden thought that it could well be the last he ever saw of her didn't sit well with him.

Garp looked at him then, met his gaze squarely, and, “It’s outta my jurisdiction,” he said simply, a seemingly offhand comment, as though he’d washed his hands of it. Except the fact that he was stating it in the first place was such a blatant breach of protocol, if it hadn’t been for the situation being what it was, Rayleigh might have had the mind to be surprised, and pleasantly so.

It wasn’t a request. And it wasn’t a go-ahead. Not officially anyway, although even the thought that it should be implied stretched the limits of probability.

Although—Roger might disagree, Rayleigh suspected.

_Sheesh, Rayleigh, you’re too cynical sometimes! He’s not a bad guy, that Garp, for all that he punches like my grandmother._

_Roger, you know he can’t hear you, right?_

_Hah! Here’s hoping!_

“Ship was gone this morning,” Garp said then, shoving the wanted poster back into his pocket. “Half a day’s head start, I’d wager. At the very least.”

Then he was walking away, and Rayleigh was left with only a moment to marvel the fact that he’d taken part in a civil conversation with Monkey D. Garp that hadn’t ended in a brawl. Although it didn’t surprise him to discover that the reason would be _her_ , somehow always at the centre of things. Insofar as he was concerned, anyway.

He was moving before he’d had time to follow that line of thought down the path it wanted to take him, to the knowledge of the fate that awaited pretty young women headed for the human market. And it didn’t take him long to reach the ship, shrouded in the familiar tumult of preparation before departure, but he brushed off the noise and the greetings offered as he made for the gangway.

“Captain,” he said, and knew from the distinct lack of a grin that Roger had caught onto the fact that he wasn’t bringing good news. And as he strode up the gangway, the brusqueness in his step must have said enough, because a moment later Roger was shouting for the anchor to be raised.

When he turned back toward him, Rayleigh wasn’t surprised to find his expression serious. For all his easy laughter and good humour, Roger was above all things staggeringly perceptive.

“Would you like that story now?”

—

 

The first day aboard the slaver, she fought.

Not physically, with fists and teeth. She wasn’t an animal, and wouldn’t let them reduce her to that. No, she fought quietly — looked for anything that could be used as a lock pick and memorised their guard routines by heart, even as she felt the futility of all her plans in the tilt and shift of the ship beneath her. They were far out at sea, and where would they go if she by some stroke of luck should manage to get out of the holding cell? She couldn’t jump in the water and swim — she had no idea how far it was to the nearest port.

And then there were the others, huddled below deck with her. She recognised some of them, people she’d let loose only the day before, back now to crouching in corners, choked sobs muffled by their knees. Only Shakky walked about, manoeuvring between the shapes, some curled-up on their sides, but most simply sitting, no strength left in them for anything else. But then she’d only been there one day. She hadn’t asked how long the others had suffered this fate, but from the look of them she didn’t need to. One day or one month or one year, the answer was the same. _Too long._

She was restless, so much so that it trumped the worry that sat at the bottom of her stomach, and that at least was a small relief. And she still had the strength to move, even with her aching shoulder, and the nose that wouldn’t stop throbbing. There were no painkillers here, and no alcohol to dull her senses, but her pains seemed insignificant compared to the greater misery of the cramped brig. And so she helped where she could — checked for wounds and fevers, and offered small comforts; human contact, although most flinched away from her touch. But she tried not to let her growing sense of helplessness swallow her up, even as she felt her hands shaking, with grief, with fury, and something she couldn’t pin a name to, watching the faces she’d first seen with bars between them and knowing her actions had done _nothing_  in the end.

But then — “Thank you,” one of the women said, when Shakky had settled down against the wall, the tilting ship making it difficult to keep standing.

When she glanced towards her, it was to find her looking back, gaze tired but focused. And before Shakky could ask what she’d meant, “My baby sister got away,” she said then, voice little more than a croak, but the smile that followed was a terrible thing, with all the gratitude it held. Shakky felt sick. “I can never thank you enough for that.”

She didn’t know how to respond; there were no words when she looked for them, only that quiet fury, and an incomprehension that made her knuckles whiten where she'd tucked them in her lap. And for all her calm temper, she wanted to _shout_  — to ask how she could possibly say something like that when she was back in chains and waiting to be sold. _Thank you? For what?_

And she couldn’t think about the fact that she was headed toward the same fate — couldn’t seem to make herself accept what was happening, or that she was one of them now, even as she knew there must have been a time they’d been like she was now, before they’d grown too tired for defiance.

The thought that it might well be her crouched in the corner in her own filth made her recoil — not for the indignity of it all, but for the simple fact that there were people in this world who could break a soul so thoroughly it had no will left to resist.

And that was what drove her, sitting awake that first night and listening to the quiet breaths and the gentle movements of the ship. And her heart might be her father’s heart, calm and resolute, but she let it harden now, staring into the dark until she felt it, the furious beat of it against her ribcage an eerie battle-drum in the quiet.

The second day, she tried a more aggressive approach.

Turning her attention from the other slaves, she set her sights on the guards instead — fixed the full weight of her coercive gaze on them, and set about picking them apart. She looked for weaknesses — a sweet, trembling smile, perhaps, or the sultry batting of her lashes. Learning humans was like picking locks; you just had to be patient until you found where to put the pressure, and where to jimmy until it clicked. And that was what she did. She learned their names, how old they were, and how long they’d been in the business. She looked them in the eye, or at their feet, and depending on their sort, adjusted herself accordingly — this one preferred when she looked lost and desperate; that one liked her cheek, although he was loath to admit it.

And she didn’t know what good it would do her, but she _hoped—_ because hope was all she had left to work with aside from her wits—that when it was time for them to dock, one of them might have had a change of heart.

On the third day, they broke her ankle.

It _hurt,_ like all broken bones hurt, and she’d broken her arm falling off the roof of her mam’s house when she was ten. It had hurt then too, but that had been an accident — the shock of it had been the worst. This had been done with _intent_ , the heel of a boot shattering the fine bones, and despite herself she’d cried out, the sound bouncing shrilly off the walls of the cramped cell. The other slaves had barely even flinched.

She hadn’t been able to stand up after that, and she’d watched the twitch of a satisfied smile on the face of the slaver who’d wiped his boot on the planks after the deed — the one from West Blue whose name she’d learned, and who was barely older than she was.

 _It’ll heal_ , they said, but not to justify the action, just as an offhand comment. As though she wasn’t worth the consideration of needing to justify anything; as though she’d only brought it upon herself.

It was painful moving, and so she settled against the far wall, careful not to jolt her leg too much. But it was difficult not to with all the others around her, and unable to walk, to pace until her mind settled, it didn’t take long before she felt the first, cold grip of claustrophobia, like she was being slowly suffocated, although with the blinding pain of her broken ankle atop her other aches it was thankfully enough to distract her.

And she'd thought then, the taste of blood in her mouth and her ankle throbbing in time with her pulse, that they'd leave her be after this, at least until they docked.

On the fourth day, they sheared off her hair.

 _Lice_ , they said simply, although she hadn’t asked. _Such close quarters, and you know how it is_ , they’d added, as though it really couldn’t be helped.

If she’d been a vainer woman she might have felt a bigger blow, but even if she wasn’t, at the sight of the long dark tresses—her mam’s thick texture, but her old man’s colouring, or so she’d been told—piling around her, Shakky hadn’t been able to stop the tears.

 _It’ll grow back out_ , they said, but it wasn’t for her sake; it wasn’t to offer any kind of comfort. No, it was to soothe their own concerns, that she wouldn’t sell for as high a price if she didn’t look the part.

 _It’ll heal,_ they said, about the nose; about her ankle. _It’ll grow back._

Somehow though, Shakky doubted she would, after this.

 

—

 

The fifth day dawned without her knowledge; Shakky only knew it had come when the slavers stopped by with their first meal, but she hadn’t seen a sliver of sunlight in days and couldn’t seem to convince her body of the passage of time. She was too tired to move, and so she let the others have the meagre helpings of bread and water; they’d gone hungry longer than she had, and with her ankle she couldn’t have dredged up an appetite if she’d tried.

The woman who’d thanked her for saving her sister sat with her, fingers touching against hers, and five days ago Shakky might have found some victory in the small gesture, but as it was all she could focus on now was the pain, and the slowly sinking acceptance that there was no escape to be found — not now, and not when they docked.

The Grand Line. It wasn’t a sea sailed lightly, and no ships that set their course towards it came back, or so the rumours said. And she’d heard the stories — had once thrived off whatever information she could gather about the mysterious waters, and there was a part of her that had always longed to sail them, to see just what stories she could gather there.

But somewhere on that sea there were people who traded in flesh — people who went about their lives as everyone else, but who’d pick a living person out of a line-up, as though they were any other household item. And she’d heard the murmurs from the others; the hopes of being sold to a good house, with kind people.

 _Kind people_. As though the term could be applied to someone who would wilfully buy another person.

Her thoughts circled the same topics, lying there in the damp dark, the rank smell of piss and sweat too familiar now to faze her. She thought of her old mam, who’d kissed her cheek when she’d set out to sea and who'd died the year after. She thought of Garp, who’d told her in no uncertain terms that he’d have her tossed behind bars for her cheek alone, but who’d left her sitting on the slaver ship without a backwards glance.

But somehow, no matter how far her thoughts strayed she found them coming back to the same thing over and over — that patiently amused smile in her memory, curving seemingly without conscious effort, as though she was at once exactly what he’d expected her to be, and entirely unpredictable.

And —  _kind_ , she thought now, the word a strange comfort in the dark, and a small defiance in itself, thinking of the whispers. She could say very little for certain about Silvers Rayleigh, but that at least was a truth she’d hinge her life on.

She lost track of time after a while; didn’t know how many hours passed as she lay there, curled on her side, one broken shape among many. She couldn’t look at her ankle, twisted at an odd angle and cradled against her side, and every time she moved her head and she felt the lightness of it she pushed the thought back, until all that was left was an empty, almost peaceful vacuum.

She was startled back to herself by the ship rocking — a tremor racing through the hull with enough force to send her rolling across the planks, and it caught her so off guard she’d barely had time to register the pain that shot up her leg, to lodge a startled shout in her throat.

Concerned murmurs erupted around her, but she couldn’t lift her head off the floor. She heard a terrified whisper of _cannon fire,_ although she couldn’t tell if it was true terror or hope that gave the words that quality.

She didn't want to consider the latter, knowing that whoever it was, the odds that they were worse than their captors was greater than the alternative.

The ship rocked again and someone was shoved into her side, and this time she did cry out, the agony enough to make bile rise in her throat, and it was all she could do to keep it in.

And that was when she felt it — that uncanny shiver of power in the air, and the familiar warmth, except it was a harder thing now, not bringing to mind sensual touches, although in her current state of mind that memory had never felt farther out of her reach.

There were people shouting, and boots hammering across the deck above her head. She only vaguely registered the commotion, and despite the inkling at the back of her mind of what was happening she couldn’t seem to focus her thoughts long enough to latch onto the fact. She was dimly aware of restless movement around her, but it all seemed suddenly far away, and that calm quiet of her mind beckoned now, as she felt her weight sinking back against the planks.

The _shriek_ of protesting hinges reached her ears then, but she couldn’t lift her head to look, even as she felt the others shuffling out of the way, limbs bumping against hers, until she felt nothing, no human contact whatsoever, as though she hung now, suspended in a dark void beyond reach.

Then someone was kneeling behind her, and she felt the weight of his presence before the touch that followed; a strong hand curled with care around her injured shoulder, rolling her over gently, and even though it was nigh impossible to latch her gaze onto anything with how her vision was swimming, she caught enough — the weak gleam of the glasses perched on his nose, and the severe frown sitting beneath.

And, “Boy scout,” she murmured, and wondered if she managed the smile she tried for. It was doubtful, and for some reason the feeling that chased it was regret — as though part of her wanted to offer him some kind of reassurance. “I don’t think a bandage is going to cut it this time,” she added hoarsely, and she couldn’t have managed a smile now if she’d wanted to.

Rayleigh said nothing, but she felt the touch of his fingers against her temple, brushing against the thin dusting of hair there, and despite herself Shakky clenched her eyes shut. _My, what a vain woman you’ve become, Shakuyaku._ And she wanted to laugh at that, because it really was a ridiculous thing to think about in her current state, but for all her reasoning something in her chest still constricted at the thought.

She felt him move to lift her, but the action jarred her leg and she couldn’t stop the cry that tore from her chest now—an ugly, hoarse thing that broke off with a sob, and it took her a moment to register that she’d been the one to make it. It sounded so unlike her own voice. But it made him pause, and—oh she recognised the moment he noticed her ankle by the near imperceptible tightening of his grip around her shoulder, enough to hurt, although with the break trumping just about everything else she barely even felt the bullet-wound anymore.

“Sorry,” she managed then, forcing the syllables out past her chapped lips. She hadn’t spoken in days, not since she’d learned what speaking would earn her. And she’d hated herself for thinking it—that if one ankle could heal, so could two—but the fear that they would break the other had kept her words firmly tucked at the bottom of her throat ever since. _So much for the grandeur of rebellion,_ but the musing held too much regret for the lighthearted self-deprecation she'd been aiming for, and she was suddenly glad she hadn't spoken the words out loud.

And she didn’t know what she was apologising for. Not heeding his advice, maybe, or for the need of a rescue, which she realised she might well be imagining. At this point she wouldn’t put it past herself.

The realisation brought on a sudden wave of panic, and it wiped all other thoughts from her mind, the idea that she might open her eyes and find herself staring into the wall of the cell, his touch imagined and his presence gone from her side, and a new day having dawned without her knowledge, bringing her closer to the life that awaited her beyond the Red Line. And it must have shown on her face, Shakky realised, because with her next shuddering breath she felt his fingers against her jaw, tilting her head to look at him. She tried to fix her gaze on his face, but the headache pressing between her brows didn't allow for her to pick out much beyond the hard line of his mouth.

“Rayleigh,” a voice said then, and it seemed far away, but the deep quality of the sound anchored her fleeting thoughts. It wasn’t a question or a command, but the man above her must have recognised it because then he was slipping his hands beneath her, careful not to disturb her too much as he lifted her from the floor.

He was warm — the thought slipped in through her disorientation, and her head felt heavy where it rested against the crook of his neck, the pulse leaping against his skin calm and steady, even as she felt the tight grip of his fingers beneath her knees.

She caught the glimpse of something in the doorway ahead, cast in the gold of a setting sun — a straw hat with a bright red ribbon, and for some reason the image stayed in her mind as her eyes slipped shut. There were voices speaking, but she couldn’t seem to separate them, syllables and words stumbling together in an indiscernible cacophony that accompanied the gentle movement beneath her. She hadn’t slept in days—hadn’t dared those first few nights, remembering the wary whispers of the other women, and after her ankle she’d been in too much pain—but she felt her head loll now as she sank into the arms holding her up, muscles yielding to the steady motion of his steps, and oh she was _tired_. She didn’t think she’d ever felt this exhausted.

But after the events of the past few days it wasn’t exhaustion that finally dragged her under, but something else, something that sank with a staggering certainty into every tired and broken bone in her body.

And she wanted to tell him, then — wanted him to know that it was trust that allowed her to yield the way she did now, and that it wasn’t something she'd do lightly. Although even as she tried to form the words, she couldn’t, her tongue feeling thick and awkward in her mouth, and her voice beyond her reach.

But somehow, as she felt herself drifting off to the steady pressure under her knees and behind her back, and the heartbeat beneath her ear, Shakky wondered if he might already know.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I was a marine my coat wouldn't say 'JUSTICE' it would say 'HURT/COMFORT SCENARIOS ARE MY JAM'


	4. the court of the dark king

She passed out before he’d cleared the steps to the deck, the small weight sinking in earnest in his arms, but Rayleigh suspected it might be for the best, her current state taken into consideration.

The sun hung low, spilling gold over the unconscious bodies littered across the planks. And Roger would decide what to do with the slavers; the perks of being the captain, although the usually good-humoured joke sat heavier in his mind than it usually did as he made to cross the deck, ignoring the bodies at his feet. His own doing, most of it — there’d been two or three who’d remained standing after he’d unleashed his _haki_ upon their boarding, but they’d followed suit shortly after.

“Ah—it’s the barmaid nee-chan!”

It was one of their younger crew-members, the one who’d taken a liking to her that first day in the bar that hadn’t been hers, and who’d been served a lecture after on letting his mouth run at every sweet smile directed his way. Of course, for his part Roger had only laughed, and told him to go easy on the kids.

Surprised murmurs washed across the deck in his wake now, and he shifted his grip, letting her sink lower and keeping her out of sight of the craning necks and concerned gazes he felt focused on his back. The evening sun slanted over her face, the bruise blooming along her cheekbone thrown in stark relief against her skin, and her split lip hadn’t healed, although he doubted she’d been given the chance to let it.

He didn’t look at the ankle where her leg dangled off his arm, but he remembered her reaction — the features that had always seemed to be holding a smile contorting with such visceral agony something had physically recoiled within him at the sight.

The ship’s doctor was waiting in the doorway when he stepped back on board, arms crossed over her chest and a frown firmly in place.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” she drawled, but the severe lines of her face had hardened at the sight of the shape in his arms, and she stepped out of the way to let him pass. “What’ve we got here, then?”

He placed Shakuyaku down on the bunk, careful not to disturb the broken ankle, but she didn’t stir, limbs slack and the old mattress yielding without protest to the gentle weight. In the glow of the kerosene lamp the shadows thrown across her features looked all the more prominent, her lashes long and dark against her cheeks. His hand lingered by her jaw a moment, fingers touching the spot where her pulse leaped weakly to meet him.

Then he was being manhandled out of the way, and had to take a step back, but didn’t move to leave. And there was a brief moment of surprise when she didn’t snap at him to pick up his legs, but he didn’t allow his mind to linger long on why that might be.

“ _Aish_ , but she’s a pretty one.” She touched her fingers to the crown of Shakuyaku’s head, the gesture more tender than she was wont to be, and the downwards slant of her mouth was a fearsome thing.

Her gaze met his then. “Did you kill ‘em?”

He offered a thought to what he’d felt stepping aboard the slaver, and the bodies that had fallen in his wake. He’d had no mind to consider them then, not beyond getting past them, but he did so now, remembering that dirty cell and the way she’d been curled in on herself. There were ways to break the human body—and ways worse still, to break the mind. And perhaps if they’d managed the latter the outcome would have been different.

But, “Not my decision,” Rayleigh said at length, to which she scoffed.

“Leaving it to Roger, are you? _Tch_. If it were up to me I’d toss ‘em to the sea kings. Clean this sea up a bit, and good _riddance_.”

She sighed then, the sound a tired thing, and despite the fact that she was just a handful older than he was, he saw the years sitting in the heavy press of her brow.

“I’m getting too old for this business,” Suzume muttered, as she set about checking Shakuyaku’s injuries. Her hands were certain in their movements, and gentler than she usually was, Rayleigh noted. She’d set his leg once, and hadn’t shown half the care she did now. “All these young things who oughta have the world at their feet, sold like chattel at the market.” She shook her head. “Ain’t right.”

Despite himself, he felt a smile tug at his lip. “You could always make a career liberating slave ships.”

Her laugh was a sharp cackle. “Nah. Better I leave that for the youngins. It’s their world—or should be.” She titled the girl’s head, quick fingers ghosting over the blue-black bruise, before considering the split lip. Then she spun sharply on her heel and went to the washbowl, pausing only to toss a sharp remark out the door for someone to heat her some water.

Turning back, she huffed a breath. “One of these days I’m gonna find myself some remote-assed island and I’m gonna _retire_. Preferably with a man. Or three.”

“You’ve been saying that for years,” Rayleigh reminded her.

She waved him off. “Yeah well, when you’ve got us chasing down slavers you're kinda keepin’ my hands busy.”

“Something tells me you’d miss it,” he said, watching as she set about washing her hands, her movements sharp and efficient. She was a good surgeon, for all that her bedside manner needed some work.

“I’d find some way to fill the days,” she countered, as she began rooting about for her equipment. “Set up a clinic, or a shop. I’m good with a needle.” When she glanced towards him next her smile was ferocious. “I don’t s’ppose you’d take me up on the offer?”

He laughed. “As tempting as it sounds, it’s a bit early for me to retire, I think.”

“Heh. Well, can’t a fault a girl for asking.” She glanced at the shape on the bed then, and when she cut him a glance next there was a knowing look on her face, unashamedly offered, although the latter was true for most things concerning her.

“’Course,” she mused, grin flashing, quick and damning. “Shoulda known better than to ask _you_ , considering this one,” she said, with a meaningful glance at Shakuyaku.

And even if he’d had one at the ready she didn’t give him the chance to respond to that, _shooing_ him away with the promise of violence, and that if he wanted to make himself useful he could get her a stiff drink.

 

—

 

After they pulled her off the slaver, she slept for nearly a full day.

He’d put her on his bunk and no one had batted an eye, least of all Roger, who, for all his talk of getting the full story, had accepted what little information Rayleigh had been willing to impart before they’d set out after the slavers. And he hadn’t pushed for more, or demanded an explanation of any sort; had simply acted, and taken charge, a role sitting with that curious ease on his shoulders that Rayleigh wondered if he would ever truly understand.

They’d taken the rest of the slaves on board with them, the ship bearing a bigger weight than it was used to, and Rayleigh felt it in the movements against the waves — that new burden of fear and hope and a tumult of other unnamed emotions, all of them tangible if he focused hard enough.

In stark comparison, Shakuyaku was quiet, her breaths even but too weak for genuine rest, and even after a day he still found it strange watching the slack lines of her mouth, the cheeky smile he’d come to associate with her nowhere to be seen. And for all that he’d always found the bunk a bit on the small side, it looked too large now, her injured leg elevated, and the sheets white against the dark of her hair. Sheared close to her head, it made her cheekbones stand out, giving her an odd, almost elfin look.

He’d picked up on his approach long before he heard the door open behind him, and he didn’t look up as Roger stepped through the doorway. “She woken yet?”

Rayleigh allowed his eyes to fall on the broken ankle, resting atop the mattress. Their doctor had done what she could, but it had been a bad break, and it was likely she’d be feeling the effects of it for a long time, even if it healed well.

“Not yet.”

Roger said nothing to that, only leaned back against the wall of the cramped cabin, although Rayleigh knew he had to be tired. They’d had little rest since setting out from Loguetown, trying to chase down a ship whose direction they’d only been able to guess at, but Roger had been certain, in that uncanny way he had.

“What’s the situation?” Rayleigh asked then, when his captain had made no move to speak.

“Got everyone in the brig on board, and we’ve tied up the crew. Most of them are still unconscious, which is impressive, and just a little bit terrifying.” A brief grin followed, and, “Makes me glad you’re on my team," he added.

And the words were offered lightly, but Rayleigh heard the gravity in them still. “What are you planning on doing with them?”

The pause that followed was laden. Then, “Cannons are at the ready, and the crew is eager,” Roger said. “We could also just leave them where they are and let the sea decide. She’s often the crueller fate, and I don’t care what people say about the East Blue—the waters are the same for any man stranded without food or drink.”

Rayleigh considered the options. Handing them over to the marines wouldn’t do much; Garp had made that clear enough. And even though many of them were young, they were old enough to know better. Slavery didn’t beckon the squeamish and indecisive.

He thought of her broken ankle, and the people they’d pulled off the ship, broken in worse ways yet. And they might be pirates, one type of criminals weighing the worth of another, but at least the loot of their trade wasn’t human flesh and living souls.

“I thought I’d ask you,” Roger said then, when he hadn’t spoken. “Isn’t that what first mates are for? Giving their captains advice?”

Rayleigh felt his smile lift, and offered him a look. “You’ve never needed that.”

“Ah, but _need_ and _want_ are two very different things, partner.” He gave a shrug, and as though it was the simplest utterance in the world, “I want to know what you’d like me to do.”

And it could be an easy choice, Rayleigh knew. He could tell Roger to do what he thought was best, and he would. But it was also a courtesy, offered now after he’d had time to think it through — after he'd had time to let it sink into his shoulders, the full truth of the ugly wound they’d cut open when they’d boarded that ship.

He looked at Shakuyaku again, still unconscious, and tried once more to connect the image with the one in his mind — the confident jut of her hip and the smile promising tender mischief.

“Sink it,” he said then, the calm utterance giving the words a hard edge, although it was a mercy they probably didn’t deserve. But it would be quick — they’d be dead before she woke, and perhaps that was why the decision came so easily to him now.

Roger only nodded, the gesture staggeringly simple, although the implication in his acceptance was all the greater for it.

And, “Roger,” Rayleigh said then, inclining his head to meet his best friend’s gaze. “Thank you.”

Roger’s mouth quirked. “For?”

His smile came quite despite himself. “Are you going to make me say it?”

“It’s just so much more satisfying for me, you realise.”

He looked for the words, the ones he knew had to be there somewhere. He was far from inarticulate, but for some reason, watching the woman sleeping on the bed, he couldn’t seem to formulate a response. At least not the kind Roger was looking for.

“Okay then, you don’t have to say it,” Roger said, and Rayleigh heard the grin that curved along the words. “I’ll do it for you—‘Thank you, Roger, the greatest captain and friend in the whole world, for helping out my cute girlfriend, who I shamelessly neglected to tell you about’. Did that cover everything?”

Rayleigh shook his head, gaze flickering to the woman in question. “I doubt she would agree to that assessment.”

“And you?” Roger countered, not missing a beat.

“This is our third meeting,” Rayleigh said, as though that explained it all. Somehow, he felt like it should. “I hardly think that inspires trust, let alone a designation like that.”

But even as he said it, he didn't mention how she’d looked at him before she’d gone unconscious in his arms—the relief that he’d found in her tired features. Or the ease with which she’d let him bind her shoulder that day she’d been bleeding in the alley.

He didn’t mention the kiss, either, but then that was a whole other story.

“Three times is more than most people meet on these seas,” Roger pointed out. “Unless you’re Garp, but then that’s mostly because he’s so damn persistent.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but thought against it. And it might well be Roger’s influence, creeping in like most things concerning him did—unnatural confidence being the most prominent—but for some reason he found it difficult disagreeing.

“Fate’s a funny thing, Rayleigh,” Roger said then, with a grin — the kind that always made Rayleigh feel like he was sitting on information no one else knew about. “Sometimes it sneaks up on you.”

“I don’t hold as much faith in destiny as you do,” Rayleigh reminded him, and with the words he remembered another’s; her dark eyes curving, and that soft laugh. _Oh_ _? What would you call it then? Fate?_

Roger grinned, pushing away from the wall. “ _Yet_. You'll come around.”

“That’s what you’ve been saying since we met.”

“And for all your grousing about it, you’re still here,” he said, clapping him on the back. “I’ll be in the galley. Don’t wear yourself out keeping vigil—she’s not dead, and Doc’s optimistic, which is a good sign. Or a sign heralding something terrible. You never really know with Suze.”

“I don’t mind the vigil,” Rayleigh said. “And the last time I slept in one of the hammocks my back politely reminded me that I’m on the wrong side of thirty.”

Roger threw his head back at that, but then his grin turned wicked, and, “You know,” he said then, and Rayleigh almost dreaded what was coming. “When she wakes up, maybe she’ll invite you,” he quipped, before he made for the door, still laughing.

He had no comeback — mostly because he wouldn’t have put it past her to do just that. Or rather, the woman he’d met in the alley that first time might have, but he had no way of knowing if she’d feel the same now, after what she’d been through. Although looking at her now he remembered the smile she hadn’t quite managed but had still attempted, and _boy scout_ , she’d said, the words wrapped around a tired sigh.

A noise drew from her then — a soft wheeze that dragged him out of his thoughts, and then she was stirring, movements small and careful, and unbidden rose the image of what she might usually be like, rising from bed. All broad movements, he suspected, hips jutting and arms stretched languidly over her head, taking pleasure in a lazy, gentle awakening.

He doubted the one that greeted her now was anything of the sort as he watched her eyes flutter open, blinking into the dim light, and the heave of her chest prompted a grimace of pain that pulled her skin tight across her cheeks. And he’d woken from his share of broken bones and injures in his life to know intimately the disorientation she must be feeling.

Then her gaze found him, and he was surprised to find something in her expression brightening. Given the situation they’d extracted her from, she could easily have reacted in an entirely different way.

“Hey,” she said, voice hoarse, but Rayleigh thought she sounded pleasantly surprised.

He hadn’t moved from his seat, but then she hadn’t tried to move much either, other than open her eyes. “How do you feel?”

He heard her swallow, and she seemed to take stock of herself, seeking out aches and pains, and she had more than her share. He watched the grimace tug at her mouth as her gaze dropped to the ankle, before her tongue darted out to wet her still-healing lip.

A sigh fell then, and a breathless laugh followed before she said, dark eyes finding his, “Like I could kill for a smoke.”

His smile stretched entirely of its own volition. “I hear it’s bad for you.”

She grinned, and he saw from her wince that it tugged at her lip. “I’ve never put much stock in that kind of advice.” The look she gave him was reassuringly coy, and, “Girls who do that usually don’t end up necking in dark alleyways with handsome strangers.”

He wondered how much of it was her usual brand of honesty, and how much was due to the painkillers they’d given her, but before he could decide if he should pursue the question her gaze softened, and she allowed the corner of her mouth to lift in a suddenly self-deprecating smile. “Or liberating slave ships on a whim. Well—trying to.”

Her brow furrowed a bit then, and she looked like she might say something but couldn’t seem to find the words, and, “They’re taken care of,” Rayleigh said, before she could ask.

Her chest caved with a breath, and she didn't bother hiding her surprise now, he saw. “You took them with you?”

He allowed his brows to lift. “You didn’t think we would?”

Something apologetic alighted in her gaze at the question, and he regretted the words. “I’m sorry,” she said, and her smile was an echo of her earlier one, seeming too derisive for her character. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you came to get _me_.”

The words fell into the space between them with surprising weight, but Rayleigh didn’t flinch, and neither did she.

“Why did you?” she asked then, tone curious. And this wasn’t like Roger’s quiet amusement and knowing smile — this was genuine bafflement, carefully concealed by someone who’d long since learned not to wear every emotion in plain sight.

But before he could answer—if he even had an answer to give—she went to touch her head. A reflexive gesture, Rayleigh guessed as he watched her fingers pause by her temple, before she curled them towards her palm and let her hand drop to the sheets. And he saw how tired she looked then, and figured that, whatever this conversation entailed, this wasn’t the time to have it.

“You should rest,” he said, rising from his seat, and watched her eyes track the movement. “Take the time you need.”

Her mouth lifted a bit at that, before her gaze flickered to the cabin. “Your captain is very accommodating. I’m guessing this is one of the better bunks.”

He felt his smile echo hers. “It serves its purpose,” he said. “The mattress is a little worn, but you weigh considerably less than I do, so I doubt you’ll have much trouble.”

Confusion flitted across her face at that, and she blinked — such an earnestly surprised reaction, his smile threatened to stretch wider. “Wait—this is _your_ cabin?”

Instead of answering, he turned towards the door. “I’m going to get something to eat. Anything I can bring you?”

Inclining his head, it was to find her looking at him like she was trying to look through him, but whatever her thoughts, she didn’t seem inclined to share them.

“No,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

Rayleigh nodded, and curled his hand around the doorknob, sensing the weight of her eyes on his back. But most of all he felt the one that sat in her still-unanswered question, strung up like a lifeline between them and following at his heels all the way to the galley, long after the door had closed behind him.

 

—

 

She fell asleep sometime after he left, too tired to keep her eyes open after days spent awake in the brig of the slaver. And when she woke next he wasn’t there with her, although there was no way for her to know if he’d stopped by again, or if she’d just been asleep for a moment, and in the wake of that feeling was a disorientation so profound it made her fingers twitch against the mattress. She didn’t know how many days had passed since Loguetown—or since they’d pulled her off that ship.

It was an uncomfortably _helpless_ feeling, and not one she was used to. She’d always been in charge of herself; she travelled alone, and had only herself to look after, but now she couldn’t even do that.

But, she reminded herself, sinking a bit against the bunk — she wasn’t aboard the slaver anymore. This wasn’t a dirty holding cell, smelling of piss and fouler things, and with bodies crammed together in the dark. This was a ship’s cabin, dry and warm, and smelling of—something. Him, Shakky suspected, turning her head on the pillow to press her nose against it. It was a good smell, and it helped her mind settle as she once again tried to reclaim some sense of herself.

Everything _hurt;_ that didn’t take long to deduce. Her ankle was the worst, and she hadn’t even tried to move it; just looking at it was enough. Then there were other things — her shoulder, and bruises she felt with every breath, small twinges and stabs, and what had to be a gloriously split lip judging by the hell it was giving her. And of course, there was her nose, which didn’t feel swollen anymore but which probably didn’t look very nice. It was a good thing there were no mirrors about.

The thought made her hands twitch towards her head, but she kept them stubbornly in her lap. It was just hair, and hair grew back.

 _It’ll grow back out_ , she remembered then, and was glad when it wasn’t helplessness that resurfaced now but something quite different — something strangely determined, almost like spite.

Emboldened, she lifted her hand to run it across the short fuzz, finding it soft to the touch, and not as unpleasant as she’d imagined. The cut felt more even than it had, and she wondered who’d fixed it, although she suspected it was the same person who’d tended to her injuries.

She ran her hand over her hair again, around the back of her skull, following the sharp contour until her fingers bumped against the shell of her ear. She wondered suddenly what she looked like.

Glancing down at herself, she found one answer in the shirt she’d been wearing for the past week. _How lovely._

And broken nose and ankle aside,  _that_ she could do something about, at least.

It was a feat getting off the bunk, and she edged across the mattress with excruciating care, holding her breath as she lifted her leg gingerly. But it didn’t hurt as much as she’d thought it would, and pushing her breath out her nose, Shakky lifted herself off the mattress to limp across the small space for the chest sitting against the far wall.

She’d been correct in guessing that it served as a dresser, and it didn’t take her long to root out a shirt. And discarding her own, she pulled it on — it was clean, and smelling like it had dried on deck under the sun, the dark colour faded from multiple washes, an old-but-cared-for look to it that didn’t surprise her, considering its owner. And it was much too large for her frame, which was a happy discovery — the small pleasure of an expert pilferer, although it had been a long time since she’d had a lover to steal from, and her last hadn’t been so delightfully _built_.

Hopping back, she was about to settle onto the bunk again when she paused, palm pressed flat against the rumpled sheets as her eyes locked onto the barrel that served as a nightstand, atop which sat a simple kerosene lamp—

Along with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

The laugh that pulled out of her was too startled for softness — a delighted, almost girlish thing, and she might have had the mind to care if she’d actually bothered to feel embarrassed.

Leaning across the bunk made her muscles protest, but it also felt good, after the amount of time she’d spent lying down. And when she curled her fingers around the offering, she couldn’t tell if it was amusement or something else entirely that had warmth kindling behind her ribcage.

“Definitely a boy scout,” she murmured as she turned the pack over in her hand, and felt by the pain in her lip that her smile had to be pretty ridiculous, although she didn’t want to think too much about that.

That odd thing her heart was doing was something else she didn’t want to think about. At least not too closely.

She didn’t lay back down now, only stretched her injured leg out, and let the other dangle off the side of the mattress. She didn’t know where her trousers had disappeared off to—they’d probably removed them to deal with her ankle—but the shirt covered what it needed to. And—well. It wasn’t like she’d ever been very fastidious about that sort of thing.

She was aware she hadn’t asked if it was alright for her to smoke in his cabin, but he’d left the pack there, and there was some kind of implication in the gesture that ran deeper than simple permission, although Shakky didn’t quite know what to call it, that strange surety that he wouldn’t mind. It was a tiny part of a bigger scheme, she felt; a companion to the trust that was just there between them now, the kind that allowed her to sleep in his cabin, on his _bunk_ , without so much as a twinge of the wariness the sea had taught her to feel.

Lighting a cigarette, she took a long drag until she felt it all the way in her bones, the familiar vice such a desperately comforting thing, when she exhaled it was with a shuddering laugh she didn’t quite know what to do with.

And that was how he found her, seated on the edge of his bunk in nothing but his shirt, and with a cigarette perched between her fingers. And Shakky suspected that another man might have reacted differently to the sight — or might have _reacted_ , period.

But she caught the brief flicker of something in the dark eyes behind his glasses, and found a self-satisfied curl of warmth deep in her belly when he spoke, his voice betraying nothing, “I’m glad to see you’ve made yourself comfortable.”

She smiled around her cigarette, and tried to ignore how it tugged at her lip. “I usually do.”

She watched his gaze glide across the shirt—and her, where she sat—and oh, what she wouldn’t have given to know what went on behind that careful expression. She hadn’t meant for it to suggest anything — not intentionally anyway, but as she watched him now she couldn’t help but wonder why she couldn’t let go of the wish to see what he’d make of it if she did.

He still hadn’t offered a comeback to her last remark, but then he was closing the door behind him, and Shakky followed the movement, wondering if she could catch a glimpse of the world beyond the cabin’s walls.

“What time is it?” she asked, as it clicked shut.

Turning back towards her, Rayleigh regarded her where she sat, still without any hint of what he was thinking, but, “Just after midnight,” he said. “You’ve slept a few hours since you woke last.”

Shakky nodded, but didn’t spend a lot of energy trying to catch up with the time of day. Her body would adjust at one point or another, and at the moment she was too tired to care.

“What about you?” she asked then, and when she looked for a smile now she found it, although she knew it must convey how tired she felt. “Since I’ve got your bunk, I can only imagine where you’ve been sleeping.”

The remark was only suggestive if you knew what to listen for, although she doubted he’d missed it. And still there was no outward reaction.

“There are some empty hammocks below deck,” he said at length, although for some reason Shakky felt like it didn’t exactly answer her question.

She rested her hand on her knee then, the cigarette tucked between her fingers. She considered the length of her arm, pale against the dark fabric of his shirt, bunched up around her elbow. Her ankle sat, an ugly truth atop the covers, but compared to what she could have looked like when they’d pulled her off that ship, it was a minor scrape.

She wondered what might have happened if she’d stayed there longer — if her captors would have left her alone at last, or if they would have looked for different ways to break her, should they have decided she needed it.

She found in the thought an uncomfortable prospect; an acrid taste on her tongue that had little to do with her smoking.

“Thank you,” she said then, lifting her eyes back to Rayleigh’s, still watching her calmly from across the small space. “For the rescue. And everything else.” She glanced at the cigarette in her hand, but felt with a strange certainty that he knew there was more to it than that.

She didn’t ask him why he’d done it — that question had slipped out despite her better judgement earlier, and even though the desire to know still lingered, he’d taken enough time answering that Shakky wondered if she wanted to know. She feared it might be pity. She hoped it might be something else entirely.

She feared that she hoped for anything at all.

Then his expression softened, just a fraction, but it was enough. “I’m sorry we didn’t get there sooner,” he said.

Shakky shrugged, pretending the gesture didn’t feel as awkward as it did. “You came,” she said, swallowing when it felt like her throat was threatening to close up. She took another drag of her cigarette to distract herself. “And I am in one piece,” she added, with a glance at her ankle. “Well. Mostly. I’ve had better hair days, I’ll admit.”

He didn’t smile like she’d hoped. And he didn’t ask, but she could guess what kind of question sat on his tongue now, although she couldn’t say if it was out of courtesy or something else—something far darker than his calm demeanour suggested—that kept him from speaking it.

The inkling sent a shiver up her arms, and she rubbed at her skin instinctively. But it wasn't to reassure him that she spoke now. In fact it felt distinctly like it was for her own benefit—a reminder that, although it could have been so much worse, she'd been lucky.

Although, Shakky mused — the whole concept of  _luck_ felt like mockery now, even if she'd always hinged her faith on it. The good sort, of course, but however shiny the coin, there was always another side to it, and more fool her for forgetting.

“Aside from the ankle, the hair was the worst of it,” she said, worrying the butt of the cigarette between her fingertips. “I think they meant it as a blow to my pride more than anything else, and I guess I’ll give them that. But they didn’t—I wasn't—”

She paused, frowning; the words suddenly out of reach. And perhaps she’d given herself too much credit, like she’d once fancied herself less naive than she’d in fact turned out to be, believing the world better than it was. She remembered the other women talking — the wary murmurs shared between kindred spirits who’d suffered the same hell, considering the different slavers on guard duty, and which was worse than the next. She thought of the woman who’d been so happy to see her sister escape.

And she didn't need to wonder what might have happened if they hadn't come for her, this strange crew that she owed nothing, and they even less to her.

Rayleigh hadn’t said anything for a while now, and there was suddenly very little comfort in her smoking, Shakky found.

“Use the cabin,” he said then, as though sensing where her thoughts had wandered, and dragging her eyes away from the cigarette. “And you’re welcome to a new shirt, if you should feel the need,” he added with a small smile, enough that it made her brows lift in surprise.

Then he was making for the door, and something—something she couldn’t name swelled within her, like a wave cresting, to push against her ribcage and up her throat.

It felt, unsettlingly, like panic.

“Wait,” Shakky said then, and her voice sounded too loud, but when he looked at her she swallowed and pressed on, “You’re—”

But she didn’t know how to phrase it — the fact that now that she was properly awake and conscious, the thought of closing her eyes and going to sleep in an unfamiliar cabin on a ship that wasn’t hers seemed suddenly like an impossible feat. Or that now that she’d had time to think about it, the fears she hadn’t allowed herself to feel the full extent of while trapped on that ship—and on that note, the thought of what might be waiting for her when she closed her eyes—was enough to make her throat constrict.

And at last, the fact that he looked very much like he’d be an incredibly pleasant bunk mate, although not for the most obvious reason.

“You’re welcome to join me,” she said then, before she could think too much about it, and she was glad when her voice didn’t waver. “If you’d rather not take your chances with the hammock. I hear it’s bad for your back.”

She thought she saw a smile ghost across his lips, and for a moment she thought he would decline the offer — politely, of course, but decline it nonetheless. Perhaps he’d even offer her own words right back; that he wasn’t the sort to heed that kind of advice.

But, “It’s not a very big bunk,” Rayleigh said, and when she heard it wasn’t an outright rejection, Shakky could have laughed for the relief. And she didn’t want to linger on why that was. She’d always been a shrug-it-off-and-move-on sort of person, not dwelling on the things she couldn’t have, but for some reason, with him…

Her smile came, surprisingly without effort. “I’m not a fussy girl, Ray-san,” she said. “I don’t mind if it’s a little cramped.”

There was a whole host of suggestive remarks she could have added to that, but for some reason she didn’t feel like ruining the offer by glossing it over with teasing. And it was the second time she’d addressed him with something other than a nickname, but they all sat awkwardly on her tongue now. _Silver-chan_ felt too informal, and _boy scout_ too intimate, remembering the alley, and the brig.

And _Rayleigh_ felt like too much — felt like an entirely different sort of invitation, and even if she’d considered it on more than one occasion since their first meeting, that wasn’t what she’d had in mind now.

No. The third option was…safe. A middle-ground, but even as she thought it, she watched something shift across his expression, and she wondered just how _safe_ she’d been trying for. And he was looking at her now as though he was trying to figure out what her ulterior motive was, and Shakky took a moment to consider whether or not she even knew the answer to that.

But then, before she could offer the subject more thought, he was making towards the bunk where she sat, plucking the cigarette from her fingers to put it out. She watched him as he manoeuvred the cramped quarters with a keen familiarity, before taking a seat on the other side of the mattress from her. And she considered him as he removed his shoes and glasses, and wondered at the gentle intimacy of the small and private movements, curious eyes tracing the shifting muscles beneath the shirt drawn tight across his back.

He blew out the kerosene lamp, and the sudden dark that draped across the cabin was a heavy, comfortable thing. And it was easier in the dark, Shakky found, following his lead as he settled back against the mattress, the dip of it making her tilt towards him, like an invitation. And it had been a while since she’d last shared a bed, but she mapped out his shape now, being mindful of her ankle as she eased herself against his side.

It really wasn’t a bunk suited for two, especially with the size of him, but fitting herself against him came with an ease she hadn’t expected; she’d had lovers who’d been good for a romp but who’d given her restless, sleepless nights, but as she lay her head against his chest a contented sigh dragged loose of her own that she couldn’t have stifled if she’d wanted to.

“You’re a little too warm for comfort,” she said then, even as her fingers itched to chase after that warmth, seeking bare skin, but she kept her hand where it lay atop his shirt.

She felt his laughter, a low chuckle, and the rumble of his voice beneath her ear, “Rescinding your offer already?”

“Why, would you be very disappointed?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and she wondered what expression he was wearing now — if in the dark he let slip more than he did when she was watching. “The hammocks are exceedingly uncomfortable,” he acquiesced after a beat, and she hummed a laugh.

“Maybe you’re just getting old.”

“That's entirely possible.”

Shakky smiled. “I don’t mind that you’re a little old.”

She didn’t rightly know what she meant by that, only that she did, and he didn’t ask. Instead what he said was, “An easy thing for you to say. You don’t have my bones.”

“Says the one without the broken nose and ankle,” she retorted, and she could imagine his smile now, the one that he let slip sometimes, although she couldn't be sure.

“A fair point.”

She heard his heartbeat, steady against her ear; like the rest of him, it gave nothing away as to what he was feeling. And the thought struck her then that he could have laid down with his back to her, keeping a polite distance between them. And he was the sort to be courteous, but Shakky wondered if he hadn’t caught onto the fact that her offer had implied more than just rote bed-sharing out of necessity.

Still. He had no obligation to offer comfort. Like he’d had no obligation to come after her. And it was difficult not to read into his actions, especially when she was on the verge of sleep and not fully in control of her own thoughts.

There was a memory tucked away in her mind, of a dark alley and the evening sun, and his mouth against hers. But this was a different kind of intimacy, and different than the one she’d allowed him the day he’d bound her shoulder. And they’d gone about things in a strangely roundabout way, Shakky mused, even as she had no idea where they were meant to end up.

And— _meant_ , she thought then, and would have laughed if she hadn't been so tired.

She didn’t think of the brig on the slaver — the cramped space; the bodies pressed against hers, and the hard planks under her cheek. Instead she focused on the heartbeat beneath her ear, and the knowledge she found in the sound; a simpler truth than any she’d gathered in her years of sailing the seas, tucked away with all the other bits and pieces he’d given her.

 _Silvers Rayleigh_ , she thought. _A damn fantastic kisser._

_And a better man than most._

“Sure this isn’t too much trouble?” she asked then, and didn’t specify what she meant. Somehow, she knew she didn’t have to.

She felt his arm come around her shoulders, a careful action that allowed her room to reject it, but she didn’t, and when she felt the warm weight of his palm against her back Shakky allowed her eyes to slip shut.

And she heard the smile now when he spoke. “Just the right amount.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers of my ‘Shanties for the Weary Voyager’ series might recognise a certain ill-tempered seamstress. I did mention she used to be a pirate, no?


	5. silver, gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this week has been the longest ever, and it's only Wednesday. You can always tell I'm stressed by how frequent my update schedule is; I'm always super productive when I should be doing everything else but write fic, but it's my main source of stress-relief so hey, what can you do.
> 
> And I know there’s like four of you who follow this story regularly, but I just want to say that you keep me going, guys. Thank you for your continued interest in this thing—you're the best!

Hunger was what woke her, drawing her out of sleep with an urgency that sat like a sinking hole at the bottom of her ribcage, although it was a slow process getting her mind to catch up with the needs of her body, however pressing the reminder.

It took her a moment to figure out where she was — to make sense of the muted dark, and the heavy weight across her back. Someone’s arm, half wrapped around her, and when had that happened?

Then she remembered, the pieces coming together. Her broken ankle in its cast atop the mattress, the cramped bunk, and the even breaths she could feel against the top of her head where it lay cushioned against a warm shoulder.

Blinking sleep out of her eyes, Shakky tried to recollect herself, and drag her thoughts fully out of the heavy comfort of unconsciousness that had allowed her to forget about her injuries. And—oh yes, there was her ankle, and her nose and shoulder, although for some reason they all seemed to pale in comparison to the gnawing hunger. She hadn’t eaten in—two days? And there had to be a galley on this ship, and a cook, and if there wasn’t she could always sneak something from the larder. Honestly, at this point she didn’t much care what she ate so long as it filled her stomach.

It was an effort slipping out from under Rayleigh's arm without waking him, but she’d extracted herself from far more compromising situations with less grace, and even with her leg she managed, gently nudging his arm out of the way as she made to shimmy out of his half-embrace, pausing only to sneak a glance at him. And she had a thought, watching him sleep, that he must have been tired indeed not to have woken at her movements; he seemed like the sort who’d be alert, even asleep. And she felt a twinge of regret, realising it was likely because of her.

Then something other than regret followed; something exasperated and fond and far too familiar for two people who barely knew each other.

His hair had come loose sometime during the night, and it was a curious urge to resist, the one she felt like an itch in her fingers now, to reach out and push it away from his face. It fanned out across the pillow, the sleepy tangles endearingly messy, and the smile tugging at her lip made her glad he wasn’t awake to see it. For all that his confidence was a quiet thing, she doubted he needed the ego boost.

The pressing hunger was becoming unbearable, and she didn’t want to wake him, or make a bigger burden of her presence than she must already be. And so it was with care that she made to lift herself off the bunk, mindful not to jolt him too much as she slid towards the edge of the mattress, teeth clenched as she attempted to keep her ankle elevated in the same movement.

Then she was free, and without stopping to consider whether or not she ought to locate some trousers—the shirt really did cover more than enough—Shakky hopped quietly towards the door, before slipping outside.

It was early — not even dawn yet judging by the grey light, and the thick cover of mist that lay like a shroud across the deck. And she took a moment just to breathe, to have her lungs expand until it hurt, and feel the cold cutting against her cheeks. With her hair so closely cropped her ears felt strangely exposed, but it had been _days,_ and just being outside was enough to make her shove the small discomfort back where it had crawled out from.

She couldn't see much of the water through the mist, but she guessed they were somewhere out on the open sea. And she spared a thought to the slaves that had been on the ship with her, and made a note to check up on them later.

She didn't let herself think about what they'd done with the slavers; if they'd showed them mercy or not. Maybe she'd ask Rayleigh one day, but it would have to be a different one than this.

With a last glance at the cabin before letting the door slide shut behind her, Shakky inched her way down the deck to where she guessed the galley was — or if not, where there might be someone who could point her in the right direction. But clearing the corner, the smell of something cooking directed her toward a closed door, and keeping to the wall she was glad when the doorknob yielded without resistance, and a sigh threatened at the back of her throat at the gust of warmth that drifted out, a shock against the pre-dawn cold.

And, “Morning,” a voice greeted, shameless amusement ruining the polite effect, although going by the grin that followed, Shakky doubted he was sorry. And she paused only a moment in the doorway, taking in the man seated at the long table — the straw hat on his head, and a newspaper spread out before him.

And the grin she’d heard in his voice stretched wide across his face now as he took in the sight of her, dark gaze pausing on the too-large shirt, but Shakky didn’t linger long, and, “Good morning,” she offered back, before limping inside.

Gold Roger put down the paper as he rose to his feet, but he didn’t reach out to assist her. Instead he went to the stove, to pour something from the pot sitting on it over into a bowl, and she was strangely glad of the small courtesy when he walked back to soundlessly put it before her. Even hopping on one leg he’d let her make her way to the bench by herself, and it was a strange relief, after so many days of being at the mercy of others in one way or another.

And it was just plain porridge, but as she helped herself to a mouthful Shakky found she could have wept for the taste of it, and the warmth that filled her belly. She wasn’t beyond saying it was the best meal she’d ever had.

Roger had settled back down with his newspaper, but was dividing his attention now between the pages and shamelessly watching her eat. And Shakky stared back, which had his smile widening. Compared to his first mate, he seemed to be having no reservations about letting his face betray his thoughts.

And she could guess what was coming before he even opened his mouth to speak, having apparently decided she’d been given enough time to enjoy her meal in peace.

“You know,” he mused, good humour tinging the words. “You’re way too pretty for Rayleigh.”

She nearly choked on her porridge, and the laugh that tumbled off her tongue sounded more like a cough.

Okay, then—she hadn’t known _exactly_ what would come out of his mouth.

Clearing her throat, Shakky wiped the corner of her mouth with the edge of her shirtsleeve. “Given my current state, I'm tempted to call that flattery.”

Roger was still grinning. “People say I’m too honest for flattery.”

“But not the self-serving sort, I take it?”

“Hah! Well, if the shoe fits.”

She smiled around her next spoonful. “You’re different than what I expected you to be.” His reputation taken into consideration, she’d expected someone far more severe, not a man who seemed comfortable wearing a permanent grin.

“Now who’s resorting to flattery?”

“I didn’t specify that it was a _good_ kind of different.”

“Speaks for itself though, doesn’t it?” he countered, one dark brow lifting. And there was something about that brand of unabashed confidence that might have looked awkward on anyone else’s shoulders, but he wore it like it’d been made for him. _Strange man._

He cut her a look then, the corner of his still-grinning mouth lifting even further. “So,” he said, and that lone word somehow managed to promise nothing but mischief. “You and Rayleigh. How did that happen?”

Shakky noticed that he’d very carefully not specified exactly what he was referring to, and she didn’t know whether to take it as another show of courtesy.

Probably not, considering the entirely too-knowing grin he was wearing.

If she’d been a different sort of person she might have denied the kind of relationship he was implying, but she knew how assumptions worked, and that sometimes the best response was to say as little as possible. And as it was, Shakky couldn’t even say for sure what there was to deny. They hadn’t slept together — or rather, they had, but without the fun part. Of course, it wasn’t like she was averse to the latter happening. She’d certainly thought about it enough.

And then there was that strange thing her heart did whenever she thought about it, and she knew basic attraction well enough to realise that this...was something else.

But it was, as with so many things concerning them, difficult to explain. And so what she said was, “Oh, you know. I tried to steal his money, and he stole mine instead.” She didn’t mention the kiss, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. He’d clearly already drawn his own conclusions, so it wasn’t like it would come as a shock.

If he knew she was leaving things out, Roger didn’t let on, only threw his head back with a laugh. “God, I bet that’s his idea of flirting,” he said with a shake of his head. Then, and with a smile tossed her way, “Although I guess it worked.”

“That’s a confident statement,” Shakky said.

“What can I say? I’m a confident guy.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

He grinned. “You like him, though. I’m right in guessing that much.” He didn’t even phrase the last bit as a question, and despite herself, Shakky couldn’t help the smile.

“I like a lot of things, Straw-chan.”

He laughed at that. “ _Straw-chan_? Is that what I am?” His grin turned wicked. “Now you’ve got to tell me what you call Rayleigh.”

“Hmm. Entirely lewd things,” she said around her next spoonful of porridge. “Not suitable for repeating in polite company.”

“Good thing you’re here with me, then.” His grin hadn’t lost its shameless look, but something curious entered his eyes then, and, “I’ll let it slide if you tell me your name,” he said.

Shakky cocked her head. “He didn’t tell you?” Although for some reason she wasn’t surprised to hear it.

Roger shrugged. “He’s neglected to tell me a lot of things,” he said, but didn’t sound convincingly put off, although Shakky doubted he’d attempted it. He didn't seem the type to hold onto his annoyances, if it had even been that. “Your existence being one of them,” he added.

She didn’t really know what to make of that — the fact that he knew so very little about her, and yet didn’t seem to have batted an eye at having to track her down across the East Blue.

“Shakuyaku,” she said then.

A dark brow arched. “That’s a mouthful.”

She felt her smile quirk. Somehow, that response seemed entirely appropriate. And normally she would have left it at that, but she remembered then that this was a captain who’d come to her aid; the man whose name showed up with every new tide, and who had far better things to do, Shakky suspected, than mounting a rescue for every odd pirate who got themselves into trouble with slavers.

But he still had, and looking at him now, she had a feeling the choice hadn’t been a difficult one.

“Shakky, then,” she said.

The gleam in his eyes told her he hadn’t missed the significance, but he glossed it over with a guffaw. “That’s more like it!”

She was about to respond when the door to the galley slammed open, and looked up from her breakfast to find a woman in the doorway — a short and wiry frame, her pitch black hair streaked with silver and with a fearsome face pulled into a decidedly unamused frown.

She took one look at them both, but her sharp eyes landed on Shakky, and something like disapproval flashed across her features. “What are you doing out of bed?” she asked, and when Shakky glanced at Roger it was to find him mouthing ‘doctor’ with a grin that ruined his attempted look of sympathy.

Turning her gaze back to the ship’s doctor, it was to find her still glaring, as though waiting for an answer but expecting it to be the wrong one.

Then those keen eyes slid down Shakky’s frame, across the rumpled shirt, and her grin stretched — her face fearsome for an entirely different reason now. “ _Oho_. Well.” And with one brow arching, “I reiterate—what the hell are you doing out of bed when you’ve got a man like that in there?”

Shakky felt a smile tug at her mouth. “He’s not doing much at the moment.”

She heard Roger choke a laugh, and the woman outright cackled. “Ha! Now there’s a truth.” Then with a shake of her head, “But good for Silver-boy,” she added, and with that she turned to Roger, appearing entirely at ease with forgetting the fact that Shakky was still out of bed. “You got a pot brewin’, or do I have to make one myself?”

He waved towards the stove shoved against the corner. “All ready for you, Doc.”

She grumbled something about the early hour as she made her way to the stove, and when she came back Shakky was surprised when she put a tin cup down before her. The coffee smelled strong enough to burn through her esophagus, but it was with a grateful sigh that she curled her hands around the offered cup.

“How’s the leg?” the doctor asked then, gaze sliding to where Shakky had stretched it out across the bench.

Shakky followed her gaze. “It’s hard to tell with the cast, but I think it’s safe to say it’s still broken,” she offered, before taking a sip, and was pleased to find that severe mouth curling.

“Cheeky brat. Mah, could already tell from the look of you.” Then her expression turned serious. “Cheek aside, though, don’t put any unnecessary strain on it,” she said, one brow quirking. “And you know what I'm referring to. Be flat on your back if you need to. I know it ain’t ideal, you a slip of a thing and him looking like he weighs a damn ton, but sometimes you’ve gotta make some sacrifices in this world.”

It was a testament to the control she had over her own reactions that Shakky managed to keep a level face. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“See that you do.” Then to Roger, “The hell are you smiling for?”

Eyes on the newspaper, the grin stayed firmly in place. “No reason. Just disappointed Rayleigh isn’t here to weigh in on the matter.”

Hiding her own smile behind the rim of her cup, Shakky silently agreed.

The door opened again then, this time revealing a group of young men, most of whom Shakky recognised, and she saw the moment they recognised her by the smiles erupting across their faces.

“Nee-chan!”

“You’re awake!”

“Hey, let me through—!”

“—got here _first—_ ”

She caught Roger’s quick smile, but he didn’t look up from his reading, their antics either entirely familiar, or expected. And despite herself she felt her smile widen as the pirates crowded inside, all of them talking over each other as they took their seats on the bench beside her, endearingly mindful of her broken ankle.

“How are you feeling?”

“Have you eaten yet?”

“Do you need a refill?”

“Hey, I was getting it for her!”

“Idiot, I’m closer to the stove.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Here you go, nee-chan!”

“What the hell, man—you got her a new cup?!”

The amicable squabbling was a strangely heartening thing, and with two full cups of coffee and a third making its way towards her there was an odd thought sitting within her, wrapped in the warm and noisy din of the galley, that this was a very different life of piracy than the solitary one she’d grown used to.

The gruff doctor slipped out sometime after her third cup, muttering under her breath about someone below deck with a wound that needed tending, before she was gone. And the fourth time the door creaked open Shakky barely made note of it. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the entire galley going quiet, she probably wouldn’t have noticed.

Rayleigh’s expression was one of amusement and careful interest, and she saw that he’d taken the time to make himself presentable — or more than Shakky, anyway. He’d changed his shirt and pulled his hair back, although all it did was remind her that she knew what he looked like first thing in the morning, and the realisation curled like a pleased cat within her.

His gaze met hers then, and she couldn’t for the life of her read into that expression, but she had the impression he was pleased to see her up and about. And she was surprised to find something else in his gaze, a brief mirror of her own thoughts regarding that intimate knowledge that sat between them now, like a private joke between friends, although it felt nothing at all like a joke, and _friends_ seemed...entirely the wrong word, for whatever they were.

And she possessed enough self-awareness to realise that whatever had passed between them over the span of the last three seconds, it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

The rest of the crew all looked at her now, finally seeming to take in her state of dress — or perhaps more importantly, what she was dressed in.

A groan slipped from somewhere in the group. “Aw _man_. It’s always the older ones, isn’t it?”

One of the others patted him on the back. “Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

A quiet chorus of solemn agreement washed over the room. Amused, Shakky wondered if she should tell them that their suspicions were unfounded, but then there was that thought again — that reluctance to deny it, even though there was really nothing to deny.

The talk had risen back up again, and when Rayleigh came to take a seat on the bench one of the crew-members who’d been sitting near her relented his seat without a word.

“Coffee?” Shakky offered, fingers curled around her second cup.

He offered the other two a glance, before raising a brow. “Have you had anything to eat?”

The query made her smile. “Your captain served me porridge.”

He slid a dubious glance across the table. “You can’t cook to save your life.”

Roger only raised a brow, and casually flipped a page. “I heard no complaints until you walked in.”

Rayleigh looked at her again. “You ate it all?”

Grin curving behind the rim of her cup, Shakky shrugged. “Desperate times, I guess.”

He smiled at that, and she was glad to see it was a genuine one. “It would have to be that,” he agreed, a soft laugh pulling from him.

There went her foolish heart again, and it was an entirely disconcerting feeling, the light-headedness that followed, like she’d missed a step going down a flight of stairs. But if he noticed anything off about her reaction, Rayleigh was polite enough not to mention it.

But there was her mam’s voice, coming from somewhere old and rarely touched — a fond memory from when she’d been too young to know better than to be free with her affections.

_Oh, Shakuyaku. You need to be careful who you give that honest heart to. Not everyone is playing for keeps._

Roger was laughing again, the sound dragging her out of her thoughts, and she realised she’d missed whatever had been said to prompt it. But she couldn't muster a convincing smile now as she let the din of the room settle over her shoulders, a surprisingly heavy weight, and the sound of Rayleigh's quiet amusement the loudest of all. And there was a bitter taste on her tongue now that had nothing to do with the coffee as she stared into the dark bottom of her cup, and wondered not for the first time since that sunny day on the Loguetown docks, that for all her luck and hairsbreadth escapes, trouble still seemed to keep finding her, one way or another.

 

—

 

It was well past noon by the time she made it out of the galley, declining many and eager offers to assist her as she limped down the deck towards Rayleigh’s cabin. The mist had relented and the sky stretched toward the horizon now, a soft grey heralding rain, but the air was crisp and welcoming, and she took her time making her way, hugging the wall for support.

She heard his approach behind her, and knew it was him from that uncanny way she seemed to have become attuned to his presence, and when she inclined her head it was to find him considering her struggle, the corner of his mouth hinting at a smile.

“Here to offer your assistance at last?” she asked, leaning her weight on her good leg. It was starting to ache, the muscles in her thigh clenching painfully from lack of use.

“I didn’t think you’d welcome the offer.”

She cut him a coy look. “Do you want me to _ask?”_

His brows lifted. “You’re not too stubborn not to, I hope?”

Shakky hummed. “I can be a great many things if I put my mind to it.”

His smile was far too knowing, Shakky decided, and, “That I don’t doubt,” he said, but he didn’t make her ask, or remark on the fact. Instead she felt his hand under her elbow, the offer an entirely wordless thing and his fingers warm against her bare skin. And when he gave a gentle tug she followed, and allowed him to lift her, the action surprisingly effortless — although, she reminded herself, he had carried her before.

“Is this where I sigh prettily and commend your show of strength?”

She caught his grin, a quick, almost startled flash of teeth. It was strangely satisfying. “Only if you feel like it.”

“My, what witty banter,” she drawled, although it was an effort keeping her laughter contained. “Enough to make a girl swoon." She tried not to focus too closely on the grip of his hand under her knees, but because she couldn't help herself, "A good thing you’ve got that covered,” she quipped.

She caught the gleam of his eyes behind his glasses. “As you like to remind me, I am always prepared.”

She laughed out loud at that, the sound so earnestly startled she didn't know which of them was more surprised by it, and she watched as several heads turned in their direction from across the deck, and numerous faces wearing expressions of open amusement. And she caught the murmurs spreading as Rayleigh shouldered his way through the door to his cabin, to put her down on the edge of the bunk.

He closed the door just as a sliver of laughter drifted towards them, muffling the sound, and Shakky considered him where he stood as he turned back to look at her. And there was a moment's thought that she should have gone below deck to check on the others; she'd been meaning to now that she was well enough to move about. She didn’t know what she’d gone back to the cabin for — a nap maybe, or just to rest somewhere quiet, but the implication that sat in his presence now hinted at something else, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips at the thought.

“It’s a rowdy crew you’ve got,” she remarked, as she stretched her good leg out, kneading the muscle above her knee with a grimace.

“Roger likes it that way,” Rayleigh said, and she hid a smile at the way he said it; not outward criticism, but there was something in his voice that told her the captain wasn’t the primary disciplinarian in this crew. She thought about their assumptions, shared openly and without reserve, and wondered if he'd have a talk with them later, to set the record straight.

She couldn't quite decide what she thought about that.

As though reading her mind, “You seemed at ease,” he continued, drawing her gaze back to his. “Rumours being what they are.”

It was a casual remark, and if it had been anyone else making it Shakky would have thought it prompted by insecurities, but knowing him as she did now, she knew it had to be something else; she just couldn't guess what that might be. It wasn't to be suggestive. At least, she didn't think so. Although...

“My trade is rumours and hearsay, Ray-san,” she said, lifting her gaze to his. “I know that denial will in most cases only strengthen beliefs, not shatter them.”

Rayleigh said nothing, and she wondered what he was thinking — if he was considering the same thing she was, whenever she looked at him now. She’d thought he’d make a decent lover the moment they’d first met, but where it had been an offhand thought then, now it seemed to creep in at every available moment. And the attraction was there, oh yes. She wouldn’t be hard to ask, if he were to make the offer. In fact, she’d considered it enough to know quite intimately what her reaction would be.

And looking at him now, finding the dark quality of his gaze and the numerous things that sat in it, she wondered if he might be thinking the same thing.

“I wouldn’t mind,” she said then, tilting her head. “If the rumours had a shred of truth to them.”

His brows lifted, a near imperceptible gesture. “Just a shred?”

She grinned. “Depends entirely on what you’d make of it.”

He laughed at that, the low rumble an entirely unfair sound, Shakky decided. And she’d never been more aware of the cramped space of the cabin than she was now, watching him take in the sight of her seated on the bunk. There were goosebumps on her bare legs, but she couldn’t be bothered to care, and she watched his gaze track the length of them, fingers curled towards her palms as a shiver lurked at the bottom of her spine.

His eyes landed on the cast then. “That might make things difficult,” he pointed out.

He hadn’t turned her down, Shakky noted, and allowed a grin to grace her lips. “Only if you let it.”

She was pleased when that made him smile. “An intriguing challenge.”

“Hmm. Don’t lie now—that’s part of why you like me so much.”

The honest agreement she found on his face was enough to stun her into silence, and it was the most he’d ever let slip of his feelings.

“Rayleigh,” she said then, tongue wrapping around the name like she could taste it, and she watched his reaction shift across his features, delightfully expressive now that he was letting her see it.

Her tongue felt dry and large in her mouth, and she could feel her heart leaping against her ribcage as he took a step forward, to kneel before her where she sat. The grip of his hands against her bare thighs was a shock of warmth, and she parted her legs without thinking, letting herself tilt forward until she was perched at the very edge of the mattress, barely a sliver of space between them now, even as he hadn't yet reached up to kiss her.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, and when she felt his grip on her legs tighten a hum of contentment slipped out of her, even as an inkling crept in somewhere at the back of her mind that pleasure aside, this might hurt — that she’d barely allowed her body time to recuperate, and that ideally, this was something she’d have liked to do when she had the capacity to respond as enthusiastically as she normally would.

But then there was the thought about gift horses again, and not letting the opportunity pass her by now that he was offering it.

Before she could let her thoughts go any further down that path, Rayleigh pulled back, and when he sketched his palms down her thighs to her knees the tremor that shot up her spine made her jerk in surprise. But the intention was clear in the action, and she felt her smile soften, realisation settling in its wake.

“Holding out on a girl, Ray-san? I'm almost disappointed.”

The smile curving along his mouth said enough, but, “Almost,” he emphasised, although he didn’t move to pull his hands away, or to rise to his feet. And if she’d been more prone to bouts of self-consciousness she might have felt a blow to her pride, but with their close proximity, and the fact that he wasn’t bothering to temper his expression now, the notion that he didn’t find her desirable was a laughable thing.

His hair spilled around her fingers, and she gave it a tug, playfully admonishing even as something quite different swelled behind her ribcage. “Curious man,” she clucked her tongue, touching her fingertips to his neck to find the leap of his pulse, a far quicker thing than his outward calm suggested. “So much for pandering to ship’s gossip.”

He was considering her closely, and she imagined the full weight of his gaze must be a terrible thing to behold for the unprepared. But exposed as she was, barely dressed and with all her cuts and bruises and broken bones, with the race of his pulse beneath her hand she wondered if the feeling might be mutual.

He leaned closer then, one of his hands reaching up to cup the back of her head, and her breath caught quite despite herself. But when she ducked her head to meet him all he did was touch his lips to the corner of her mouth.

And it was over before she’d registered it, but she felt the curve of his smile as he pulled back, rising to his feet.

“There's your shred of truth,” he told her, and it was suddenly a feat pulling air back into her lungs as she watched him turn towards the door. And when she heard him leave it was only belatedly that Shakky realised she hadn’t even managed a response — not to the kiss or to the words, too busy reeling from the whole exchange.

And the unforgiving fact that, insofar as truths were concerned, it felt nothing at all like a _shred_.

 

—

 

Her offer for him to join her that night was implied, and he accepted it quietly, a small routine in the making in the way he placed his glasses down by the kerosene lamp, tugging his hair loose of its cord as he allowed her time to make herself comfortable.

With the events of the day still fresh in her mind, Shakky took only a moment to consider the unspoken exchange as she settled down against him in the dark, always mindful of her ankle and her other small pains, although with every thought she had of shifting or adjusting he seemed to be one step ahead, letting her have most of the pillow, and slipping his arm beneath her to help keep her weight off her shoulder. And after so many days with the reality of her injuries sitting always at the forefront of her mind, the gentle weight of his arm across her waist was easily borne.

And when she lay awake listening to the sound of his breathing, it wasn’t feelings of discomfort keeping her from sleep, remembering the want he hadn't even bothered to hide, and the painfully chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth.

No. Quite the contrary.

 


	6. ebb and flow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been travelling lately and had plenty of time to write in airports. I'd also state that updates over the holidays might be sporadic, but it's been that way since I started this fic, so as always, I'll beg your patience and hope you enjoy!

The day that followed on board Gold Roger’s ship, Shakky kept herself busy.

She spent the morning with the people they’d brought with them, most of whom had suffered injuries similar to hers, in varying degrees. And she spent the remainder of her daylight hours helping the ship’s doctor with her work, changing bandages and checking fevers; little aids that didn’t require much medical knowledge, only time and patience, and on board a strange pirate ship with a broken ankle and enough unresolved sexual tension to drive a saint out of their wits, she had plenty of both to offer.

Rayleigh had left her to her own devices, which was a small relief, Shakky found. He’d been gone when she’d woken that morning, and she’d spent a few minutes staring up into the ceiling of his cabin, wondering at the warmth lingering in the sheets and trying to catch up with her thoughts.

But helping the doctor, whose name she'd been informed was Suzume but who preferred to go by Doc (and 'preferred', at least according to Roger, meant you wouldn't find yourself on the business end of a mean right hook), had given her an outlet for her restlessness, and something to take her mind off the events of the past week — all of them, frustratingly reticent first mates included. And when her meagre medical skills weren't enough and her hands had threatened to become idle she'd found herself holding a fruit and a suture kit.

“Didn’t break your fingers, did they?” the doctor asked at her surprised look, and before Shakky could offer an answer, added with a grumble, “It’s a good skill to have, anyhow. And it'll keep you off that leg,” before leaving her with her new task.

And without anything better to put her hands to—or her mind, and she’d had enough time for introspection stuck in that dirty brig to last her a lifetime—Shakky had found a quiet corner below deck and gotten to practising.

She took to it quicker than she’d have guessed she would, and there was a curl of satisfaction at the realisation. It wasn’t perfect, but the weight of the tools in her grip was familiar, and allowing her breath to even out into the steady pace of focused concentration, she wiped her mind of all distractions and let her hands do the work.

“Quick study,” the doctor mused some time later, coming to take a seat beside her on the bench, the gruff acknowledgement offered with a cup of something that smelled stronger than just coffee, placed wordlessly at her elbow.

“Quick hands,” Shakky countered, but didn’t stop what she was doing, although she offered the cup a grateful glance. There was always something that ached these days — her fingers now, although the strain was a comfortable one, which couldn’t be said for the others. But a drink sounded good.

Sensing her intent, Suzume pushed the cup closer, and Shakky put down her tools to take it. “It shows. Pick a lot of pockets, do you?”

“Locks, mostly.”

That fierce smile shot like lightning across her face, followed by a thunderous laugh. “Yeah, you’ve got the look about you as someone who sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Shakky smiled. “In my experience, those are usually the best places to stick it.” Barring her recent run-in with slavers, perhaps, but there was no regret when she looked for it. The people she’d freed the first time were properly that now, and her own scrapes a small price to pay in return.

Another laugh, but a surprisingly bitter thing this time, and the look she got was far too knowing. “Spoken like someone who hasn’t been burned enough doing it.” But there was a hard sort of acknowledgement in her look as her gaze slid past Shakky’s ankle, propped on the bench.

The cup was warm between her hands, the smell of strong coffee and liquor a welcome distraction, and she was about to lift it to her lips for a sip when the doctor added, tone lighter now, “Something tells me you haven’t been picking a lot of locks lately, though.”

Pausing with the cup to her lips, Shakky met her gaze squarely. “Something tells me you’re not actually talking about locks.”

That fierce grin didn’t yield. “Maybe I was hoping to spare your youthful sensibilities.”

“I’d be grateful, if I had any to spare.”

A rough cackle pulled from her chest, decidedly pleased. “God, with that quick mouth it’s no wonder you’ve got Silver-boy so smitten.”

It took a surprising amount of effort to keep her face blank, but she did, taking a deliberate mouthful. The drink shot a trail of warmth down her throat into her belly, and when she breathed next it took some of the jittery tension in her muscles with it.

Of course, her silence didn’t derail her companion, although Shakky hadn't thought it would.

“So why haven’t you?” she asked, taking a swig from her own cup.

Her voice was entirely level when she replied, “Why haven’t I…?”

A snort, followed by a wry grin. “Picked that lock. To continue that particular euphemism.”

Shakky hummed. “Who says I haven’t?” The woman herself had assumed as much, only yesterday.

A dark brow shot up. “You look too tense for someone who’s been busy picking locks. I'd say the same about him, but then he always looks like that.”

Shakky countered it with one of her own. “That’s contrary to what you suggested yesterday.”

“Kid, if you take everything I say as truth, you're in for a surprise.” She shrugged. “Figured there had to be something there, though. Ray doesn’t ask the captain for a lot of favours.” Her next look was meaningful. “We’re none of us slave liberators.”

“If you’re looking for his motivations, you should ask Ray-san,” Shakky said.

She received another snort for her efforts. “I can guess his motivations just fine. It’s your own I’m curious about.”

Shakky held her gaze. “Maybe I offered and he turned me down. Some locks are tricky.”

The look she got was entirely unimpressed. “Not if you've got the right tools. Mah, considering the fact that you look like death ran you over with a horse-cart, I’m not surprised. He’s a courteous bastard, that one. Still—ain’t as simple as that, is it?”

It wasn’t, and Shakky would have agreed, except she didn’t have much else to offer, and certainly not the answers Suzume was fishing for.

“He’s difficult to read,” she said at length.

“Not if you know what to look for.”

She thought of his pulse, leaping against her fingertips. The look on his face where he'd kneeled before her. And it would have been easy if he’d just slept with her, she thought. Maybe she’d have put it all out of her mind now if he had, itch properly scratched and fare-thee-well, good sailor.

There were a lot of things that would have been easier, if he’d been a different kind of man. But then if he had been, she’d probably be somewhere on the Grand Line by now, up for purchase, or perhaps already sold.

And she’d considered it, of course — that her conflicted feelings might stem from some sort of skewed sense of gratitude, and that whatever she felt beyond her initial attraction was nothing more than feelings brought about by the fact that he’d saved her life. It wasn’t impossible, and it wasn’t beyond believing that he thought the same, which would explain his reluctance to accept her advances.

Or, well—not  _reluctance_ , exactly. And she hadn’t actually made any further advances, but it wasn’t like she was the only one who  _could_.

“They sank that ship they pulled you off,” Suzume said then, dragging Shakky's gaze back up. For once, that sharp face was curiously unreadable. “Slavers and all. Was Ray’s decision.”

Her empty cup felt suddenly heavy in her hands, although she'd suspected something of the sort. But not that he'd been the one to make the decision.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?” she asked, frustration giving her tone an edge. She didn't mention that she thought she might understand, because that knowledge didn't help her one smidgen of a bit insofar as her own feelings were concerned.

Her companion grinned — not a pretty smile, or even a kind one, but honest all the same. “No one your age is supposed to know anything,” she said. “Ignorance is the beauty of youth. Soon you’ll be old and know more than you should. No heavier burden than that—not even age.”

“Depends if you’re prepared to carry it,” Shakky said.

Suzume looked at her, long and hard. “And are you?”

Shakky had the feeling they were talking about a very specific kind of burden, and felt the weight of it in the sharp gaze considering her from across the table.

Suzume rose to her feet then, and tossed back the contents of her cup. “No burden greater than feelings,” she declared. “Whether it’s your own or the knowledge of someone else’s. I’d advocate caution, but if you're not so inclined I’d say kid, get yours. Life’s too short to waste on  _bad_  sex, and there’s enough of that to go around.”

Despite herself, Shakky smiled. “So in the choice between caution and good sex, choose good sex?”

She received a suggestive look for that. “Who says the former can’t lead to the latter?”

“I’d call that youthful ignorance,” Shakky retorted smoothly.

“Hah! The tongue on you, girl,” she laughed, shaking her head. “Bet you’d give Roger a run for his money.”

She considered Shakky then, fond amusement softening her severe features somewhat. “I figure,” she said, dragging the words out with a contemplative hum, the rough quality of her voice giving the sound a strangely pleasant lilt. “If a man was willing to chase me across the East Blue once, he might be inclined to do so again.”

But before Shakky was given the chance to offer any insight to that remark she’d turned on her heel to stalk towards the ladder, leaving her with her half-finished sutures and an empty cup she suddenly wished was full, as she found herself once again alone with her thoughts, and all the implications clinging to the words left in her wake.

 

—

 

She remained below deck for the rest of the day, keeping company the people who sought it, and talking to keep them distracted. Even out of chains it was still an unfamiliar ship, and some still seemed to struggle reconciling the identity of their saviours with the word  _pirate._

Some of them had homes, she learned, and were eager to return to them. And Roger didn’t seem put off by the potential detours — in fact, when he’d stopped by and Shakky had asked, he’d only grinned, and with a shrug of his shoulders told her he sailed wherever the ocean currents took him.

Of course, it wasn’t as simple finding destinations for all of them. Some didn’t know where to go, or they did but would rather take their chances with the open sea. But when overhearing it, the ones who had homes had stepped up, offering lodgings. The woman whose sister Shakky hoped was still free somewhere had been one of the most eager, brow furrowed with determination and the tired gleam gone from her eyes, a solidarity in their shared fate that didn’t allow for anyone to be left behind.

It had gotten her thinking, considering the ceiling of Rayleigh’s cabin as the ship cut its meandering path across the East Blue. For all that the crew had welcomed her like one of their own, accepting her into their daily routines without so much as a hitch or a word of protest, she couldn’t help but feel out of place. Piracy sat suddenly like an ill-fitting garment, as though her very skin had grown too tight across her bones, and when she thought of her sloop, still moored in Loguetown, it wasn’t eagerness she felt, the itch that sat in her limbs now.

And of course—there was Rayleigh.

They hadn’t broached the subject of the exchange in his cabin the day before, the careful toeing of the border between what they were and…whatever lay on the other side. He’d made himself scarce most of the day — or she had and he’d let her, but whichever it was, they’d seen very little of each other, and when she’d retired it had been to find an empty cabin, and an empty bunk. And she’d spent an hour following the crooked pathways of the lines in the planks above her head, and the soft shadows thrown by the cabin's lone lamp, before her restlessness had finally gotten the better of her and pushed her off the bunk, to grab her pack of cigarettes and limp outside.

Which was where she found herself now, seated on the railing, her still-healing leg dangling over the side and a cigarette between her fingers. And it was easier letting her mind drift, out here with the sea spray against her cheeks and nothing but ocean and sky to lock her eyes onto; a freedom that she’d always treasured but had never known just how much, until she’d ended up aboard that slaver.

Shakky dragged a breath through her nose, eyes resting on the dark horizon, and the blanket of stars stretched far and wide overhead. She wondered where he’d stowed himself away for the night. In the galley with the others, probably; she could hear the muffled sound of laughter drifting through the walls behind her, a quiet backdrop of noise to the stillness of the ocean and the night sky.

She didn’t think he was ignoring her. He didn’t seem the type to avoid confrontations, although she wondered if it might be for her sake that he kept his distance. And she thought she ought to feel annoyed — and probably would have been, if she could with certainty have claimed that he had no reason to assume she needed time to sort through her thoughts.

As though at a silent cue, she heard the creak of the galley door, and a wash of noise and light spilled across the deck at her back before it was cut off by the door sliding shut again. And there was only a moment’s pause before she heard the sound of approaching footsteps across the planks.

“One strong gust of wind and you’ll topple over the side.”

She felt her smile lift. “I’m a good swimmer,” Shakky countered, exhaling a lungful of smoke as she inclined her head to take in his approach.

“The cast might make things difficult,” Rayleigh said as he came to a stop beside her, considering the dark waters below, and the smile lurking at the corner of his mouth told her the words were by no means an accident.

Well, then. It would seem they were going to have this conversation after all.

She had a thought, before she spoke, that she was postponing the inevitable — that although circumventing the crux of the issue with innuendos and suggestive remarks was comfortable, it wouldn’t get them anywhere. But there was a stubborn sort of resistance sitting in her chest, thinking about it; an almost spiteful defiance that wanted him to be the one to take that first step.

And so, “I’m adaptable,” Shakky said, brow lifting meaningfully. “As I’m sure you’ve already guessed, although I’ve yet to show you just how much.”

Rayleigh laughed, in that way he had of doing. Nothing like Roger, who laughed loud enough for the whole crew combined. This was a gentler mirth, but genuine all the same.

“You’ve given that impression, yes,” he agreed, and the look he gave her made her grin threaten to become entirely too pleased — the gratifying sort of pleasure sparked by the keen knowledge of being desired. Not an uncommon feeling, but her self-satisfaction was a different sort now, considering who’d prompted it.

“Oh? What’s this?” she asked, lifting her cigarette from her lips, to rest her hand against her knee. The curl of smoke dissipated on the sea breeze, a silver ghost. “Have I been causing you trouble, Ray-san?”

The gleam in his eyes told her exactly what kind of trouble she’d caused him, and despite herself, the flutter in her stomach that followed made her breath catch. But instead of answering he reached towards her, taking the cigarette from her fingers, and Shakky watched, curious and delighted as he took a long drag, before handing it back.

And it was easily one of the most erotic displays she’d ever witnessed, and if she’d found her words when she looked for them, she might have told him.

He exhaled, and, “No more than I’ve caused you,” he said, with a surety that made it suddenly difficult to swallow.

Her voice sounded rough when she spoke, but, “You might want to be a bit more specific,” Shakky said, putting the cigarette back to her lips, the gesture entirely deliberate, and watching his eyes track the movement. And it was hard to say why she was doing it, exactly — to see just how much it would take to shatter the near maddening tension, maybe. Or perhaps she was testing to see how much it would take for one of them to cave. Him, preferably.

And looking at him now, she wondered if that had finally done it. Because Rayleigh considered her then, and she found she expected it this time, the serious, almost resigned look that came to settle on his face.

“You asked me, that day when you first woke, why I came for you,” he said then, voice low so as not to carry across the deck, although aside from the two of them there were few people about. The watcher in the crow’s nest might be bored enough to listen, but given the tedious nature of his job, Shakky was almost inclined to let him.

Rayleigh’s smile was a curious thing, mostly because it was entirely rueful. “I don’t know if this is the right time for the answer.”

Oh, there was a number of ways a conversation like this could go, Shakky knew. But even though his words implied a rejection, it wasn’t what he was offering — quite the opposite, and the reason she could claim that with such certainty was the expression on his face, for once entirely open. And for all that he hadn’t verbally given her the answer, she found it regardless, although the unspoken truth was a kinder thing, in that it didn't demand a response.

She considered him where he stood — took in his whole posture, his back straight and his arms crossed over his chest, and the weight of his gaze on her where she sat. And she thought of all his careful gestures, the offered companionship and the shared bunk, and the care he took never to overstep either boundary. But what his words implied now wasn’t companionship at all, but something far more serious, and from the look of him he was aware that it might be too much.

And as she watched him, finding all the years written in his features that she'd yet to live, and his quiet acceptance of fact, Shakky realised that he might be right — that right now, whatever it was that existed between them, it was too much for what they still were.

But she remembered then, the doctor’s words from earlier. And it wasn't confusion she found, considering them now.

“Then tell me some other time,” she said, and watched his brows lift. She grinned. “I think…that I need to figure some things out first, anyway,” she added, and was surprised to find how easily the words came to her now.

She was less surprised to find him accepting them with the same ease. “That’s probably a wise decision.”

“My, Ray-san,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Hoping to be rid of me?”

His own smile stretched, entirely too knowing. “I have a feeling it’s not going to be that easy.”

Shakky shrugged. “Well,” she mused, kicking her leg idly. “I am trouble, as you like to remind me, and trouble attracts company, wherever it goes. You might find that you’ll miss me in that regard, although given your captain I doubt you’re in short supply where trouble is concerned.”

Rayleigh didn’t respond immediately, but she found his quiet agreement, although she couldn’t quite decide which of her remarks he was agreeing to. She thought it might be the first, that he'd miss her — or she hoped it was, for all the good that did her.

“Speaking of your captain,” she said then, before he could look too closely at her words and hear everything she’d said with them. “Earlier today, Straw-chan asked if I wanted to join your crew.”

If he was surprised Rayleigh didn’t show it, although if Roger hadn’t outright told him, Shakky suspected he’d imagined the possibility. “And what did you tell him?”

“I told him ‘no’. He didn’t accept—said that I’d come around. I don’t know if I should be flattered or annoyed.”

“That is a common dilemma where he’s concerned,” Rayleigh said, and she grinned, wondering suddenly if that was how he’d found himself where he was now. He didn’t strike her as the sort who set out to be a pirate for the glory or the loot, but then neither of those things had been part of her motivation, when she’d first set her sights on the sea.

“I’m quitting,” she said then, calmly but surely, and as though declaring it to the sea itself. And, “Piracy,” she added, in case the words were too ambiguous, although he’d always been uncannily quick on the uptake with regards to her remarks.

“I think I’ll open that bar,” she mused, tapping her fingers against her raised knee as she tried to picture it — a small, cosy place with a polished counter-top, the kind that would collect rings in the wood, and cracks and marks from bar-brawls. The sort of place that would inspire confidence, and where the walls would listen and keep every word spoken.

When she stole a glance at him, Rayleigh was smiling. “In it for the money after all?”

Shakky hummed, eyes twinkling. “Not  _only_  that.” Looking out across the sea again, she shrugged her shoulders, finding them strangely light. “I’d like to be informed. When something like what went down in Loguetown happens again, I want to know about it.” She didn’t say _if_  it happened again, because she’d learned now the naivety of that statement.

She looked down at her leg then, dangling over the side, the water frothing where it pushed against the prow below. “And those who’ve gotten themselves into trouble,” she added, quietly. “The ones who have nowhere else to go…I’d like to give them somewhere. A place to stay, to sit out whatever storm they’re caught in.” She let her mouth quirk. “Both figurative and otherwise.”

Rayleigh smiled. “I should like to see it.”

“Would you visit?” she asked, carefully gauging his reaction. She didn’t doubt that he heard what sat unspoken in the query, light as it fell on the sea-breeze. “Stop by for a drink?”

The weight behind his look was answer enough, but he softened it with a chuckle. “Knowing what you’d charge me, I don’t know if I could afford it.”

She grinned, and before she lost her nerve, “Would that stop you?”

And this was more than just toeing the border, she realised. It was more than a split-second decision on his part, to come for her, and more than the chaste kiss, that day in his cabin. This was an open invitation — an offer without a timeline, or even the surety that anything would come of it.

It was more than they should rightly be, but the sea had pushed stranger lives together than theirs, and for all that she’d once given him grief for his implied suggestion of fate, Shakky couldn’t help the thought that maybe some things did happen because they were meant to.

And if that was truly the case, she would just have to let it.

_I figure if a man was willing to chase me across the East Blue once, he might be inclined to do so again._

She didn’t know if she’d expected anything different, given all he’d revealed just in the past few minutes, but, “No,” Rayleigh said then, the lone word settling, too heavy to be carried off with the breeze, but she found she didn’t mind the weight of it, nestled behind her ribcage.

And there was her answer, Shakky knew, to the question she'd been unable to put into words all day. And it wasn't much, but she didn’t need anything more, and anyway, that wasn’t how they worked.

And as she'd come to learn, in all their years that was a truth that would never change.

 

—

 

When she was ready to retire she was pleased when he followed, no offer to carry her this time, but his presence at her side as she limped across the deck held the promise of support if she needed it.

The others were still in the galley — Roger, too, by the familiar laughter cutting through the quiet on occasion, but Rayleigh seemed to have no plans of returning, and when the door to his cabin clicked shut behind him Shakky felt the quiet where it came to settle, a more intimate sort than the press of the night sky outside.

Taking a seat on the bunk, she watched him where he stood, seeming to be weighing his options.

“Considering the hammock again?” she asked, only partly joking.

His expression was entirely serious. “If you’d prefer.”

“I’d prefer a warm body to sleep against, but I can always ask one of the boys if you’re not up to the task.”

The way his gaze darkened was an incredibly gratifying thing, and it took effort not to let her smile slip, although she had no doubt he knew she was teasing.

Her look softened then. “I’d appreciate the company,” she said honestly, and with a shrug, “Your company, preferably.”

“It’s not too much trouble?”

Her own words, Shakky recognised, but this wasn’t him teasing. And there was that leap-and-drop thing her heart did, realising just what it was. The doctor had called him a courteous bastard, and she found it a fitting epithet now, watching him place the weight of the decision in her hands. And the easiest choice would have been to bid him good-night and wish him good luck with the hammock.

But then, they’d already established that  _easy_  wasn’t the way they wanted to do this.

She felt her smile curve, and when she breathed next her heart settled, along with all her uncertainties. “Ray-san,” she purred.

“When have I ever given the impression that I can’t handle a bit of trouble?”

 

—

 

The way she said it was evidence enough that he really should have taken his chances with the hammock, Rayleigh knew, but it was a stronger heart than his that could resist the full weight of that dark gaze, and her request for company, offered so earnestly.

Sleep didn’t come for them at once. She was restless, although that wasn’t a surprise given the restrictive nature of her injuries, and the fact that she was stuck aboard a ship that wasn’t her own. And of course, there was the ever-present knowledge of mutual attraction that sat like a palpable weight, and as she shifted to make herself comfortable against him Rayleigh wondered once again what wisdom had sat behind the choice to accept her offer a third time, especially given the conversation they’d just had.

He thought of her injuries — the ankle tucked against his leg, along with the multitude of other hurts she was dealing with. She wasn’t in shape to be doing much of anything; that she was out of bed as much as she insisted on being was against the doctor’s orders, and it was the reason he’d turned down her offer, the day before.

But at the heels of that thought followed the acute knowledge that if he were to kiss her, she’d respond — would do so eagerly, even, small hands buried in his hair and her injuries forgotten. She’d made that abundantly clear, but like he was aware of her physical hurts, he was also keenly aware that some wounds ran more than just skin-deep; and with someone like her, who'd rather gloss over trauma with humour and suggestive remarks, it was impossible to tell just how affected she'd been. And he'd been so intimately connected with the things she'd gone through, however welcoming she’d be of his advances now, he wouldn’t risk what might well be the outcome, regret being only the kindest.

Scrambling for a distraction — “Tell me something I don’t know,” he said, when she’d wiggled around enough to drive any and all thought of sleep clean from his mind. “Purveyor of information that you claim to be.”

He felt her restless movements settle, the weight of her head a soft press against his shoulder. “What do I get in return?” she asked. “You should know I drive a hard bargain.”

Rayleigh smiled. “A story for a story,” he offered, and then, “You can put the rest on my tab,” he added dryly.

He could imagine her smile. “The tab you now have in the bar that I don’t own yet?”

“You have to start somewhere.”

“My first customer,” she mused, sounding distinctly pleased. “Already in debt.”

“You haven't heard the story yet," he chuckled softly. "I might surprise you."

He heard her hum, and the mirth that sat in the sound, gentle in the way that was hers. "Oh, I'm counting on it."

She drew a breath then, seeming to take a moment to consider her thoughts, and he felt in the way she sank against him that she'd made her decision. And he didn't know what he'd expected; considering her particular repertoire it could have been any sort of fanciful tale, but what he got was something quite different.

She told him the story of a girl who’d always wanted to be a pirate — who’d desired the sea from her very first glance, and who’d bought her first ship when she was sixteen, with money she'd won cheating at cards; a derelict old sloop she’d made fit for sailing with her own two hands. She’d had a mother, she told him, and spoke of her fondly — a woman who'd grown peonies in her garden, by a little cottage that sat on a hill overlooking the sea. No siblings, and no father she knew.

In return, Rayleigh told her of the first time he'd met Roger, and the life of piracy that had followed. And she listened attentively, and filled in the blanks where he paused, unsure if he should reveal certain pieces of information, perceptive to an extent where he didn’t know if he should be impressed or wary, but when he questioned her she only laughed, and offered him words that felt like an old truth between them.

_Don’t worry, Ray-san. I keep what I find._

And she’d looked at him when she’d said it, but he’d been loath to mention how she made it sound like a promise, when they’d agreed on nothing of the sort.

She was the first to fall asleep, all talk of tabs and debts forgotten, head cushioned on his shoulder and her arms tucked between them, her breaths heavy and honest. And he’d grown familiar with her sleeping habits over the past few days, intimate now with little details he’d never had any lover long enough to learn, like the small, humming noise she made just before she woke, and the way she preferred to sleep with one hand tucked beneath her chin.

It had taken longer for him to follow her, feeling keenly the rise and fall of her chest where she lay pressed against him, all her lines softened with sleep. And when he did it was to find nimble hands reaching for him, and the sound of her laughter in his ear. And he was familiar enough with this ritual to recognise it for what it was, but even though the dream-like softness of her skin and the clever edge of her smile couldn’t hope to accurately mimic the real things, he still allowed them to convince him.

And she was warm, her gentle weight an easy burden where she sat perched across his waist, her laughter rich with pleasure and _I’m adaptable_ she purred, naked back arching under his hands. His shirt was so large it obscured the whole of her, but pushing his hands underneath it he followed the shape of her as he found it, sketching the dip of her waist and the rise of her chest, her head dropping back as he skimmed his thumb along the curve of her breast, and the sound that dragged from her was enough to make his hands twitch, eager to pull her closer.

And lost to the dream and the feel of her, it was a testament to how far gone he was, that he didn’t sense it in time.

It was the tell-tale sound of cannon fire that dragged him from sleep, and he woke just in time to feel the ship rocking — not from impact, but the wary forewarning of a near-miss, a jarring sensation that he felt like a tremor through the planks.

He’d reached for his glasses and was off the bunk before she’d awoken fully, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and with the remnants of the dream still clinging, it was a momentary effort dragging his eyes away from the way his shirt clung to her slender frame.

“What was that?” Peering through the muted dark, her eyes found his, but he wasn’t given the chance to answer as the door to his cabin was suddenly ripped open, revealing Roger, having just rolled out of bed from the looks of things — no shirt in sight, in the process of pulling on his pants, and with one shoe missing.

“Oh, good,” he said, sounding a little breathless. “You’re awake—”

Something struck the hull then, and the ship lurched — enough to make Rayleigh grab onto the wall for purchase, and he heard the startled yelp, and the _thud_ when Shakuyaku tumbled off the bunk, followed by a string of muffled oaths.

Gripping the frame for support, Roger’s grin was a brief flash of teeth in the open doorway, before he turned to Rayleigh, his expression turning serious—the way it rarely did without good reason, and he was offered just that a moment later when his captain promptly announced—

“Put your pants on, Rayleigh. We’re under attack.”

 


	7. the cost of freedom

“Oh look,” Roger chirped. “You’re already dressed. Either you’re one step ahead of me, or you’re a more prudish sleeper than I had you pegged, Rayleigh.” But the look he slid Shakky was too knowing to pretend he was being fooled.

“Marines?” Rayleigh was asking, already moving, and not bothering to comment on Roger’s remark, although Shakky suspected it had more to do with their markedly different ways of handling problematic situations than any unwillingness on his part to allow himself to be goaded.

“Not by the sails,” Roger said. “And Garp wouldn’t attack in the middle of the night.” He grinned then. “Hey, can I borrow a shirt? Or is that something only she gets to do?”

Rayleigh tossed one at his face, and when he pulled it on Shakky was almost relieved — the sight had been rather distracting. Lifting herself up from the floor, she took a seat on the bunk, mindful of her ankle, which had taken her weight in her entirely graceless tumble.

“Pirates?” Rayleigh asked then, having rooted something out of the chest he kept his clothes, before turning to where Shakky sat. He offered her leg a glance, before lifting his gaze to hers, the question entirely wordless, but she waved him off.

She wondered if he might ask, but what she got instead was a pistol pushed into her hands, and, “Use it if you need to,” he told her, but she wasn’t given any further instructions before he’d made for the door, Roger at his heels, a parting salute tossed her way by the latter.

Leaving Shakky, loaded pistol in hand, still blinking sleep from her eyes and trying to catch up with what was happening.

The door slammed shut behind them, but she heard the sounds from outside — the muffled footfalls thundering across the deck. And she tried to fight down the sudden burst of panic that threatened to push up her throat. She’d been in a lot of tight spots in her life, but she’d never felt more trapped, stuck in a cramped cabin with a single pistol and without the surety that she could pick up her feet and run if she needed to. She’d always had the option of running; that was how she’d survived, on her own. And without anyone else to account for she could afford it, but now…

There were the freed slaves, and then there were the pirates. And even if she had been able to run, and to get away on her own somehow, there sat a knowledge within her that she wouldn’t have chosen that option if it had presented itself. Not now, after everything.

But that wasn’t the worst realisation. Oh no, the worst by far wasn’t the thought that she wouldn’t leave, but that for all her newfound conviction, in her current state she could do nothing to help.

“Damn it,” she muttered, helplessness giving way to anger now as she considered her ankle, snug in its cast. The sounds from outside were growing louder, and even though there was a part of her that knew it was better to trust them to handle it—that it probably wasn’t the first time, given Roger’s reputation—there was another, far more reckless part that recoiled against the thought of remaining idle.

“Oh, screw it,” she said then, pushing herself towards the edge of the mattress, pistol in hand. Broken ankle or not, she wasn’t going to sit and twiddle her thumbs while they were boarded and hope for the best. If anything, someone ought to check on the people belowdecks, to make sure they were alright.

Limping towards the door, she gripped the handle, acutely aware of her half-dressed state, still wearing Rayleigh's old shirt, but it ceased to matter as the chaos on deck knocked against her, a tumult of noise and people that left her momentarily rooted to the spot in the cabin doorway.

They’d been boarded already then, and she shoved down the fear leaping in her chest, fingers tightening around the pistol as she considered her options. She couldn’t cut across the main deck — she’d end up smack in the middle of the fighting. But she had to get below somehow, and she regretted then not taking more time to learn the layout of Roger’s ship.

But she wasn’t given the chance to decide, as there was suddenly a figure lifting themselves over the railing before her, before dropping down on the deck — a man, Shakky saw a moment later, clothes dark and inconspicuous. Not a marine, and not a pirate by his attire, at least not ostensibly.

Then he turned to look at her where she stood, and she recognised him—somewhere from the dark recesses of her memory rose the image of a sneering face peering into her own, and the words, so casually spoken in that gravelly voice—

_—she’s pretty. Once the nose heals, she’ll fetch a good price. The young ones always do._

“Well,” he said now, hard gazed fixed on her, and she saw he’d recognised her, too. “I should have guessed I’d find _you_ here, at the heart of things.” His eyes slid across the pistol in her grip, aimed at him now. “That’s two shipments your meddling has caused me.”

Shakky swallowed. The sounds of fighting were getting louder, and she caught the smell of burning wood drifting towards them on the breeze. “I’d apologise,” she said, hands steady on the pistol. “But then I’m not really sorry. If it were up to me I’d see your whole operation sink.”

His mouth curled, and she knew that look — the patiently condescending amusement she’d found directed her way more than once in her life, both prior to and after she’d pursued her career as a pirate. “If it were only _my_ operation,” he drawled. “But as long as there is a demand, there will be those who peddle in flesh. You can sink a single ship, but not a fully functioning system that's survived for centuries already.”

Shakky didn’t flinch. “A system’s only in place until someone brings it down.”

“Big words,” he countered, gaze glancing off her ankle, before travelling up the rest of her with a distinctly leering look, “For such a small girl. One who seems to be in over her head already, given your current company.”

Finger on the trigger, she pressed her lips together in a hard smile. “I seem to remember someone saying I was tougher than I looked.”

He snorted, an entirely derisive sound. And his patience was wearing thin, she could tell, and hoped he couldn’t see how her hands were shaking. “I also said you were pretty. We all make mistakes.”

“Yes, well,” Shakky said, raising the pistol a fraction. “I don't give much weight to the opinions of slavers.”

She hoped he couldn’t see through the façade of ease — she’d never actually shot anyone before. Threatened to, oh yes, but she’d never in her life taken another.

The realisation that she might well have to now made her skin crawl, but she forced the feeling down, and kept the pistol level with his chest.

He glanced at the weapon once, before lifting his eyes slowly, almost lazily, and she saw by the smile stretching along his mouth that he’d seen right through her. “You won’t pull that trigger,” he said, that grating voice entirely level, a calm sort of assurance in the statement that almost made Shakky believe him.

But, “You’re welcome to bet,” she shot back, hoping her voice didn’t waver. He looked like he was thinking of stepping closer, either to disarm her or something worse, and she knew she couldn’t step back with the same ease — not without giving him an opening to make a grab for the gun. “I’m always in for a game.”

“With these odds?”

She let her mouth quirk. _“Especially_ these odds.”

“You’re mouthy,” he said, but the words held none of the same appreciation she’d heard from Roger’s crew; instead his tone carried enough open disdain to make her shiver. “Like a dog – bark worse than your bite, or isn’t that how the saying goes?” He flicked his eyes to her again, gaze lingering on the crown of her head, before his smile curved. “Well. 'Mongrel' would perhaps be a better word in this case. My, but what did they do to you?” he mused. Then, “Once we sink this ship, I think I’ll keep you. As a warning for future rebels—you’d be surprised at the preventive effect. Perhaps I'll get you a collar and leash, to complete the picture.”

The pistol dug into her palm, but she forced herself to keep her breaths even. “No thank you.”

“Insolent bitch,” he said, the words entirely calm, but then he moved towards her, and panic flared within her as he added, “Slaves don’t have the freedom of _choice—”_

She’d pulled the trigger before he’d had time to reach for her.

He toppled, slamming back against the deck, and for a moment Shakky could only stare at the lifeless shape, and the blood pooling on the planks.

Someone rounded the corner then, and without thinking she lifted the pistol, finger on the trigger and one hairsbreadth away from pulling—

"Whoa!"

Roger stared down the barrel, before his grin quirked, and he raised his eyes to hers. “Nice reflexes. Please don’t blow my head off?”

Shakky lowered the gun. The words felt like they had to be dragged out, but, “I know who’s attacking,” she said.

He offered a single glance to the body at her feet, before lifting his gaze back to hers, and when he spoke she was relieved when he didn’t ask if she was okay, even as she found the question in his eyes.

“Friends of the guys we sank a few days ago,” he confirmed. “My guess is they were either not that far behind, or they came looking when they heard their shipment didn’t arrive on time.” He ran a hand through his hair, expelling a breath, but despite his rumpled appearance he looked _calm_  — not the almost eerie calm his first mate had displayed, but it was a profound thing regardless, like an ease that hardly required thinking.

She could tell from his expression that he’d seen where her thoughts had gone, and, “Doesn’t really matter who they are," Roger said then, and his voice was firm now. "They’re attacking my crew. I don’t give a damn about their motivations.”

It was as close as she’d get to a _don’t worry about it_ , but it didn’t make her feel any better, feeling the unforgiving grip of guilt deep in her gut, and the sense that no matter how you looked at it, everything eventually led back to her choices — she, who’d once only had herself to account for but who’d doomed more souls than her own in the past week than she had her whole life.

The ship lurched again, and she scrambled for something to hold on to when a strong arm reached out to steady her. Sea legs in place now that he’d managed to locate his other shoe, Roger was barely jarred by the impact.

“That reminds me,” he said then. “We need to evacuate.”

The smell of burning wood was all too noticeable now, and Shakky could spot plumes of smoke rising towards the sky somewhere in the direction of the galley.

“You sound awfully chipper,” she said, the words too hard for real mirth. “Considering the fact that your ship is on fire.”

The smile he gave her was cheerfully false and not even pretending to be anything else. “I’ve found it helps with morale,” he said, and despite the fact that she knew better—could see in the tight press of his brow and the hard quality of his gaze that he was far from cheerful—she felt the effect of it.

“How many boats do you have?” she asked then, thinking again of the people below deck. This couldn’t be their fate — rescued from slavers, only to die on the open sea.

Roger’s face was grave, and she knew he’d heard what she hadn’t said. “Not enough.” But then his smile got a wicked edge, as he nodded his head in the direction of the bridge, and the sea beyond. “But by the size of their vessel, I’m willing to bet they have a few to spare.”

“You want to poach their lifeboats?” Shakky asked.

He shrugged. “To the winner the spoils, eh?”

“You know you’d have to actually win first to say that.”

“A _minor_ detail,” he countered breezily, but she could see a plan forming, his face an earnest map of his thoughts, and she tracked the progress with sudden fascination.

Then, seeming to have come to a decision, Roger turned towards her, gaze landing on her ankle, before lifting to the weapon in her grip. “How good are you with a pistol?”

Shakky raised a brow, wondering where he was going. It wasn’t like she was in any condition to board an enemy ship.

“Fairly decent,” she said carefully, although her pride wouldn't allow her to undermine her own abilities, and she could tell that he’d caught on by the way his smile shot across his face, startlingly earnest.

Before she could get out anything else, he’d bent down to sweep her up, and all she could do was scramble to keep her grip around his shoulders as he set off down the deck, shouting over the din as he launched them into the chaos—

“Then you can cover my back!”

She’d barely had time to register the words, and it was difficult aiming at anything with the way he jolted her as he ran, but leaning her arm on his shoulder she felled a slaver who’d just boarded, and winced at the noise and the kickback, although Roger didn’t so much as flinch.

She caught sight of Rayleigh then, in the process of casually tossing someone overboard, that same calm grace to his movements that she’d only witnessed glimpses of but that drew her gaze now like a tether, an almost uncanny anticipation in the way he held himself, as though aware of the chaos in a way that the people around him weren’t. His business done, he turned, surveying the tumult on deck, glasses catching the molten gleam of the flames, and Shakky watched him pluck them from his nose to wipe them on his shirt.

An arm hooked over the railing behind him, and then a man was lifting himself up, knife at the ready, and her reaction was instantaneous, gaze latched onto the glasses in his hand as her own tightened around the pistol.

Sensing her intent, Roger made a sharp turn, and Shakky nearly lost her grip on the pistol, but with her next breath she’d adjusted. And pushing herself up, she grabbed his shoulder and with the added momentum took aim and landed a killing blow, sending her target toppling back over the railing.

Rayleigh glanced up, seeming no more startled by the shot than by his attacker, and if he was surprised by the sight of them his expression didn’t yield it.

Then Roger was moving in the opposite direction, and between the smoke and the fighting Shakky lost sight of him.

He laughed, the sound almost drowned by the noise around them. “Nice shot—I actually think you caught him off guard.”

She was about to ask if he meant the slaver or Rayleigh, but decided against it. For some reason, she knew what the answer would be, even if she hadn’t been able to read a single thing on his face.

Roger came to a stop near the stern, where she saw the people from below had gathered, and where the deck-hands were trying to get their one functioning boat into the water. And it was without ceremony that he set Shakky down on her feet, giving her a moment to adjust her weight to her good leg.

Then — “I’m going to board it,” he declared, eyes on the enemy ship, a looming shadow through the smoke creeping across the deck. The fire had lit the night sky molten orange, and it was getting difficult to breathe.

He turned to look at Shakky, features more serious than she was used to seeing them. “I know you turned down my offer to join, but I’m enforcing it now whether you like it or not.” And before she could object, “You’re in charge on this end. Make sure everyone gets off the ship—guests have dibs on the boat, good swimmers go in the sea until further notice.”

“Wait—”

But he was already gone, tossing a grin over his shoulder before vanishing in the throng of people and fire, leaving Shakky, pistol still in hand and a dying protest on her tongue.

There was a hand on her elbow then, and, “Shakky-san,” a voice said, quiet but firm. And she looked down to find one of the women who’d been with her on the slaver — not the one with the escaped sister, but another whose name she’d yet to learn. She hadn’t been very receptive to any form of conversation in the days following their escape, but the face that met Shakky’s now looked determined. “You should go first.”

Shakky blinked. “What?” Then, taking in the expressions of those gathered, agreement meeting her incredulity, there was yet another protest on the tip of her tongue, but it was interrupted by a hand clapping down on her shoulder, fingers digging in with surprising force.

“There y’are,” the ship’s doctor was saying then, disapproval coating the words, before she cut her eyes towards the cast on her ankle. “The hell are you standing for? Get in the damn boat.”

“But I can—”

“You put more stress on that leg than you already have, I’ll throw your mulish ass in the water,” Suzume said, smacking Shakky over the back of her head, and she’d barely had time to protest the gesture before she found herself hoisted up by a pair of surprisingly strong arms, and placed in the boat without ceremony.

“Wait! Roger said—”

“Are you Roger’s patient?” Suzume asked, and Shakky’s mouth snapped shut. “No? Then it’s me you’re taking orders from. And I say sit down and shut your trap.”

One of the deck-hands shot her a sheepish smile, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the distress he couldn’t quite conceal. And she thought of Roger again, wearing that grin, and _I hear it’s good for morale._ But for the life of her, Shakky couldn’t manage the same, eyes fixed on the burning ship as they lowered the boat into the water, that same tumult of anger and ineptitude making her hands twitch against her sides.

A warning shouted from above then, and she’d barely had time to lift her head before Suzume dropped down in the boat beside her, making it tilt violently, but she shrugged off the verbal protests, cutting the other occupants a withering look that abruptly silenced them.

She glanced down at Shakky. “Still haven’t found any pants, I see,” she snorted. “Mah, I’m all for sexual liberation, but there’s a time and a place.”

“I had other things on my mind,” Shakky countered, “Given the fact that I was woken by cannon fire.”

She received a dry look for that. “Mind yer words now, that’s one hell of euphemism.”

Despite herself, Shakky smiled. “You’ll be disappointed to hear that I’m being entirely literal.”

“Still no luck with that lock, then?”

Shakky turned her eyes away, and when she answered she kept her voice low, turning her gaze back to the ship as they drifted away. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

The thought of him had something clenching tight in her gut, watching the ship burn. There was a hard knowledge sitting in her chest, that there was no salvaging that from the flames, and she’d seen several of the crew make for the water, but couldn’t pick out his shape among those swimming behind them.

“He’s acting captain when Roger’s not on board,” Suzume said then, as though having read her thoughts, and when Shakky looked up it was to find her expression grave. “He won’t leave until he’s sure there’s no one else left.”

The words lodged themselves somewhere in her windpipe, and with the smoke it was hard to breathe past it. And she watched the vessel with a sinking feeling in her stomach — saw the flames lapping against the hull, devouring without mercy. It was difficult to wrap her head around, the thought that she’d only hours ago been sleeping soundly. And she couldn’t decide if this was just the kind of life that followed pirates like Roger, of if she was indeed the common denominator — an ill-omen, and the crux of all the chaos that had happened to her of late, and those around her.

She thought back to the slaver’s words earlier.  _I should have guessed I’d find you here, at the heart of things._

She remembered the sound of his body hitting the deck, and the two slavers she'd sent toppling over the railing. Three lives on her conscience now, when just a few hours ago she'd had none. And if her hands shook Shakky didn't bother hiding it now, or try and convince herself it was just the cold.

Someone fired a cannon then — someone still on board, and as it struck home she watched with near detached fascination as it tore through the hull of the enemy ship. It was nearly impossible to see anything clearly through the smoke, but she kept her eyes on the water, running a molten red-and-gold under the dancing flames.

Then Roger was there, appearing between one breath and the next, two dinghies in tow, and she was too relieved to care that she let it show, or to question what it meant that she did care — about this crew that she'd known less than a week.

There was still no sign of Rayleigh anywhere, and she couldn’t tell if the reason Roger wasn’t remarking on it was because of his complete faith that he’d make it out, or because the alternative was too much to put into words.

The three boats were filled to tipping, but Shakky didn’t think about the sea beneath, or what might lurk in it; for all her relative inexperience she’d never feared the waters themselves, only those who sailed them. Recent events had only solidified that, and she watched the ripples now, pushing away from the dinghy towards where the fire had engulfed the ship.

Roger sat beside her, soaked to the bone and pensive, dark gaze fixed on the flames, and it felt distinctly like she’d swallowed something hard and jagged. She felt it with every breath, each one seeming harder than the next, but she couldn't drag her eyes away from the ship.

“So long, old friend,” Roger said then, voice almost too low for her to catch, but she found them written clearly in every taut line of his usually grinning features. “Gentler waters ahead.”

She thought back to what he’d said about morale again, and found an immediate and almost aching sort of sympathy well up within her, for this strange man who’d go to such lengths for someone he didn’t even know, and whose crew was comprised of more than just human lives.

And he’d bear his losses quietly, she knew, and that thought had another pushing past it, an almost desperate realisation, and the words were tumbling off her tongue before she could stop them—

“Roger,” Shakky said gently, and if he noticed the distinct lack of a nickname, he didn’t show it. “Where—”

Something grabbed hold of the boat, making it tilt, and then Rayleigh was hoisting himself out of the water and over the side.

Her relief was a violent thing, but she had no mind to offer it, watching as Roger reached to help him, his laughter suddenly loud in the quiet. “There you are! Sheesh, talk about cutting it close. You almost had me worried.”

Glasses askew and his hair loose and dripping into his eyes, Rayleigh cut his captain a look, but Shakky saw the corner of his mouth lift, just a fraction. And then he was in the boat beside them, the extra weight making it tilt precariously, but she didn’t have a mind to offer that, either, now that she’d given herself the time to consider her relief.

He looked towards her then, reaching up to push his hair out of his eyes. “Thank you for earlier,” he said, the words sincere, and enough so that she felt the sudden urge to laugh.

She couldn't seem to swallow the sob that seemed to have lodged itself in her throat, and her voice was thick when she offered, “I have a feeling you would have managed just fine." She allowed her mouth to lift. "Being a boy scout.”

Something in his expression softened. “You can’t prepare for everything,” he said. “Sometimes you need someone at your back.”

“Even you?” She thought back to that strange awareness he seemed to have, even now as he considered her where she sat.

His smile yielded no real humour. “Even me.”

“A good thing you have Straw-chan, then,” Shakky said.

The smile that tugged at his mouth now was entirely telling, but even with the knowledge sitting between them of what he'd been really referring to, Rayleigh said nothing. And she couldn’t tell if it was gratitude or something else that rose within her now, watching him — recognising what he was offering; the freedom she’d had taken away and reclaimed, but which still sat like an itch under her skin.

She thought back to their conversation earlier, and his easy acceptance when she’d told him she needed time to figure things out — to figure herself out, and how she fit into this world now. Another man might have said _stay_ ; might have begged or demanded, but he’d done neither, even if the word sat between them still, an offering with an open date.

“Troublesome man,” Shakky added, sinking into her seat. It was getting cold, but the press of bodies in the small boat was a welcome thing. The two of them weren’t touching, although by the look of him, shirt and trousers clinging to his large frame, she guessed he must be colder, but the cramped space didn't allow her to move so much as an inch. Then again, she didn't know what she'd have done if she could—crawled into his lap?

Rayleigh was still smiling, as though reading her thoughts without trouble. “A mutual feeling,” he countered, dark eyes gleaming. “Or so we agreed.” But there was no real condemnation in his tone, and she wondered if, like Roger, he’d picked up on her thoughts regarding their current predicament, and who was to blame.

She didn’t look at him now, dropping her gaze to the bottom of the boat, and she felt suddenly _tired_  — like the events of the past, turbulent week had seen fit to pile onto her shoulders all at once. Somewhere behind her she heard Roger talking, having taken charge, and in the midst of doing a head count, but his voice seemed suddenly far away — as far as the burning ship, now a blot of red and orange on the dark water, growing smaller.

“Shakuyaku.”

Blinking, she looked up, finding Rayleigh watching her, and if she hadn’t been so startled by the use of her name she might not have let her reaction slip. He hadn’t spoken it since she’d given it to him, and it took her a moment to come to terms with the sound of it now, somehow entirely different than that day in the alley.

“He’d be upset,” Rayleigh said then, voice low, “If he knew you blamed yourself.”

She didn’t question the fact that he knew. “You have no ship,” she said instead, quietly. “You still would, if I hadn’t come along. And he loved that ship.”

Rayleigh’s eyes drifted towards the boat Roger was currently in. “Roger is pragmatic,” he told her. “It doesn’t diminish the sincerity of his feelings, but he doesn’t dwell on his losses.”

Shakky looked at her hands. “I wish I knew how to do that.” She glanced up, finding his gaze. “Not dwell.”

She saw his mouth lift slightly. “Another thing that’s mutual.”

“Oh?” She felt her own smile, but it was a tired thing. “And what do you dwell on, Ray-san?”

He looked at her, and she knew quite well what he would have said, if he’d let himself, but, “Decisions,” he said then, after a lull. “The ones I’ve made, and the ones I’ve yet to make. I wonder how much of it is out of my hands.”

“Fate?” she asked, but for some reason the word didn’t feel as humorous as she’d intended — as it had been, once, when they'd been strangers in an alley, before their lives had become so intertwined.

He shrugged, and his smile was rueful now. “Maybe that’s why Roger isn’t in the habit of dwelling.”

Shakky hummed, and turned her gaze back to the water. Despite Rayleigh’s words, the guilt still sat, gnawing at her stomach, but she watched the faces of those around her — still free, after everything. And it wasn’t expressions of grief and submission that met her now. Instead the determined weight of their brows told an entirely different story.

Her eyes flickered to where Roger stood, gazing out across the water, and she allowed herself to marvel quietly at the changes one man could inspire in so many different souls, and over such a short time.

Her own perhaps most of all, but it would be years yet before she would realise the full extent of those changes.

 

—

 

They made it to shore, by the grace of whatever deity seemed to hold Roger so high in their favour, if such things were to be believed. Shakky might have laughed at the notion once, but if the past few days had taught her anything, it was that logic and reason had no business with this particular crew of pirates.

She spent the long night dozing, tucked together between two other bodies and with someone sleeping against her back, and between the steady, rocking movements of the boat and the close proximity, sleep was quick to claim her, despite the events of the night. Or perhaps her body was simply shutting down in order to deal with everything, but the fact of the matter was that Shakky didn’t notice when they disembarked.

In fact, it wasn’t until they were well and properly on land that she woke, to the disconcerting feeling of not knowing where she was or what was happening, and it took her a moment of connecting the strange sensation of being elevated to the fact that she was being carried.

“This is becoming a bad habit,” she murmured, but didn’t protest as she opened her eyes to find him looking down at her.

The smile lifting the corner of his mouth let slip some of his own exhaustion, and for a moment guilt welled up in her, but, “You have your smoking,” Rayleigh said. “I suppose this will have to be mine.”

Her own smile came, quite despite herself, but, “Where are we going?” she asked, and tried to get a look at where they were headed. She thought she spotted Roger’s straw hat up ahead, and blinked. He hadn't been wearing it when she'd seen him last, right before she'd drifted off to sleep. One of the crew must have brought it along, although even that thought sounded odd, given the chaos she remembered, except she didn't know what the alternative was — that the hat should somehow magically have found its way back to its owner by other, more fanciful means.

 _You need sleep,_ she thought, pressing her eyes shut for a moment. _Next you'll be claiming water nymphs helped you to shore._

“There’s a town around the cape,” Rayleigh said then, and his voice dragged her thoughts back. “It’s about an hour’s trek, but I suspect that’s mostly Roger’s optimism talking.”

She frowned at that. “That's not a short walk." Then, "You don’t have to carry me.”

“Oh?” When she looked up it was to find his eyes curving behind his glasses. His hair had dried, she noted, and it fell now, loose about his shoulders. “Can you walk?”

“I was going to suggest making one of the boys do it,” she said.

He was quiet at that, and there was a thought at the back of her mind that she should ask, but before she could he was saying, “And if I’m up to the task?”

That made her smile, and she tucked it against his shoulder so he wouldn’t see. “Then by all means.”

Rayleigh said nothing else, and for a moment Shakky let the steady movements of his steps distract her, the lulling calm of the repetitive motion enough to make her sink in earnest into his arms. She could hear murmurs of conversation around them, but aside from her own injuries there didn't seem to be anyone else in need of the same assistance. They'd been lucky — extremely so, even as his pensive silence to her earlier remark lingered in her mind.

She wondered who they'd lost. She knew there had to be someone — one of the boys maybe, at least going by his reaction, and she felt something clench in her chest, but couldn't bring herself to ask.

“Hey, boy scout,” Shakky murmured then, and hoped he couldn’t tell that she meant for the nickname to soften the weight of the words that followed, “Don’t you go and die on me.”

She kept her eyes closed, but she could hear his smile when he asked, “Would you be very inconvenienced?”

She sighed a laugh. “Terribly. Remember that you have a tab to pay.”

“My story wasn’t enough?”

“It was a good story,” she agreed, remembering the tale — the brash young man in the straw hat who’d convinced him to go out to sea; who’d called their meeting destined, and was determined to prove it. “A good start, at least.”

“But?”

She smiled. “But I’m still waiting on the conclusion.”

“That might take years,” Rayleigh said, but didn’t sound very put off by the fact.

Shakky hummed, and despite her earlier preventive measures, couldn't bring herself to mind what her words revealed now—

“Here’s hoping.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Rayleigh from 40 years ago has shorter hair than I usually give him, but I just can't help myself okay, I have a Thing.


	8. waiting in the winds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes writing for underrated ships is an exercise is convincing myself that people care, but the comments on this are always unfailingly lovely.

Morning greeted her with about as much mercy as she’d expected.

There was a headache sitting between her brows, the kind that either followed too much wine, or exhaustion of the kind where her body shook loose of the tiredness before her mind did. And it welcomed her now, making opening her eyes an effort but she managed, carefully peering into the light seeping through the closed drapes, the sheer amount of which told her it was probably well into the afternoon.

Beside her Rayleigh was still asleep, entirely silent, although his exhaustion seemed all the more prominent for it. And he didn’t even twitch as Shakky reached out a careful hand to push his hair out of his face, fingertips lingering at the corner of his mouth, downturned and slackened with sleep. It gave him a curiously serious appearance, even more so than usual, and she spent a few moments coming properly awake, observing the even rhythm of his breaths and the sharp bridge of his nose, for once freed of the weight of his glasses.

And despite it being the middle of the day it was sorely tempting to close her eyes and go back to sleep, nothing beckoning beyond the door that needed her immediate attention, and after the night they'd had it was a small thing to ask, surely.

It had taken longer than an hour for them to reach the town they’d found, a place almost too small to be called that. Nestled at the heart of a cove, it housed a tiny port and barely enough houses to elevate it from a fishing village.

Roger had spun a fanciful tale — they were passengers of a merchant vessel, shipwrecked. A terrible fate, really. Pirates attacking, and could you _imagine_?

“That’s a little terrifying,” Shakky had murmured, watching him secure them lodgings at the local inn free of charge with a stretch of his lips.

“That’s Roger,” Rayleigh had simply said, and before she’d had time to remark on it further she’d been carried upstairs, and there’d been a _bed_ , and with the morning sun creeping along the window-sill it had been a small miracle she’d stayed awake long enough for Rayleigh to make it across the threshold.

There hadn’t been enough beds for them all, and so most of the crew had taken up residence in the tavern downstairs. And Shakky hadn’t protested when she’d been placed down on one without a word, knowing the battle lost, and too tired to fight. And she hadn’t offered this time — had only caught his hand, tugging until he’d sunk against the mattress with her, and he’d been asleep before he’d had the chance to remove his glasses.

She’d plucked them from his nose, dragging loose a few strands of his hair before she’d tucked them together and placed them on the nightstand. And despite the fact that she’d been desperately tired only a moment before it had taken time for her to fall asleep, even with the comfortable weight of the blankets and the warmth of his body stretched out beside her.

As though he could tell her thoughts had ventured to him, Shakky heard the tell-tale shift in his breathing before Rayleigh opened his eyes. But she didn’t close her own, or make a point of looking away. Instead she considered him calmly from across the pillow, a hum sitting low in her throat that might have been a laugh, if she hadn’t been so tired.

“Morning,” she greeted, and felt her smile curve when he flicked his eyes to the window, and the closed drapes.

“I doubt this constitutes as morning,” he said, and the sleep-roughed quality of his voice was almost distracting enough to make her zone out when he added, “even in the broadest definition of the word.”

Shakky smiled. “It’s before breakfast,” she offered, feeling acutely the pang of hunger that followed the thought.

Rayleigh made a low sound — an almost-hum, but not quite. It was startlingly pleasant. “That sounds like something Roger would say,” he told her.

“Well,” Shakky mused. “Maybe I’ve picked up on a few things, tagging along with your crew.”

The remark was meant to be light, but quite out of the blue it prompted another thought, a far darker one, and she knew the change must have shown on her face — the slight furrow of his brow told her that much.

But, “Dwelling?” Rayleigh asked simply, and she might have smiled at his perceptiveness, if it hadn’t quite struck its mark with such accuracy.

She mulled over the question for a moment, before she said, quietly, “Your pistol came in handy the other night.”

When he simply looked at her, Shakky sighed. “I’ve never killed anyone before,” she confessed, offering the words into the silence, and wondering what he’d make of them. There were doubtless many on this sea who'd think her naive for it — or if not for that, then for dwelling on it after the fact.

Rayleigh didn’t answer at once, but when she looked at him Shakky found in his silence an offer to continue. And it wasn’t relief she felt, because she hadn’t expected anything else. Not from him.

And in what had become a far too natural response, she didn’t even pause to think about it now — the fact that she could with certainty have expectations and find him meeting them. That in the short time they’d been acquainted, the small slips of information she’d gathered about his character had accumulated into a knowledge she’d bet her life on, and with far better odds than was usual for her.

Her sigh was such that it made her sink against the mattress, and, “Three, in total,” she continued after a lull, considering him from across the pillow. His hair had fallen back into his face, but she didn’t reach out to push it away this time, and tucked her hand under the pillow instead. If he noticed the movement or found it at all odd, Rayleigh didn’t let on.

“The first—the one who was in charge, I think,” she said, dragging the memory out from where she’d shoved it to the back of her mind. The pistol digging into her palm. That entirely knee-jerk reaction. “I know he was a slaver, but I hadn’t planned on killing him. I think I’d only meant to hurt him, but—”

But then he’d moved towards her without warning, and the words had struck her first— _slaves don’t have the freedom of choice—_ and something had physically recoiled within her. And it was panic that had shoved her into acting, finger pressing down on the trigger and her aim seeking more than just to _hurt_ , remembering her ankle breaking, and that dark, stuffy brig. The woman who’d held her hand, and the one who’d sat, cold and dead against the bars on the slaver, who she'd been too late to save.

She wondered if Garp had gone back for the body. Somehow, she thought he might have.

“Necessity will sometimes force your hand,” Rayleigh said then, and Shakky blinked, coming back to herself. “It’s not always an easy decision,” he added, and when she looked at him there was an entirely new expression, the one she found in his now familiar features. “But sometimes it’s the better choice.”

She didn’t respond to that, and after a pause he added, voice entirely level, “I’d rather you lived.” Then, smile quirking ruefully, “Although I doubt that surprises you.”

Shakky hummed. “I figured you might,” she said, but the remark didn’t feel quite as teasing as she’d meant, and that easy toeing-the-border thing they always did felt suddenly awkward — like she’d missed a step in a dance she knew by heart, and couldn't remember what came next.

She thought back to their conversation, to her offer to hear his answer another time, and his easy acceptance of her decision. But it was difficult, remembering what she’d decided on when she could feel the warmth seeping from his skin, so close all it would take was to reach out a hand and she’d be touching him.

And there were no guarantees, she knew, now more than ever. She could well have been sleeping here alone, if he hadn’t made it off the ship. Or he could have been, if she hadn’t shot that slaver before Roger had reached her. They could both have been dead, and all her careful distance would have meant nothing — only an opportunity missed when they'd had the chance, circumstances be damned.

Now he was close enough to touch, his hair tousled from sleep, and she felt the need when it manifested — for a kiss that she’d _feel_ , and hands on her that didn’t seek to hurt but that wanted to know her, every little thing that’d make her come apart, a kind of breaking that involved screaming, hopefully, but not the sort she still heard echoes of when she closed her eyes.

And he was so _close_. All she had to do was tilt her head. And she thought he might respond — she felt it in the look he gave her, and in the shiver racing along her arms, to pool somewhere below her bellybutton.

She shifted her head, just a fraction, the gesture entirely telling, and it was an invitation now, where the first time she’d taken more than asked. But he’d reciprocated then and eagerly, even if he hadn’t known her — even if she’d been just a stranger in an alley, nothing like what she was now, although Shakky couldn’t have pinned a name to that if she’d tried.

The hitch of her breath was a quiet thing, but he was close enough to catch it, and all it would take was one of them moving — one of them pushing forward, to cross the carefully drawn line that had been chalked and erased and redrawn and adjusted so many times she’d lost track of where it began and where it ended, knowing only that he was at her fingertips now, and if she just—

The door swung open, and Shakky would have pulled her hand back if she’d actually moved it, but as it was they hadn’t gotten any further than an inch closer, although the intention she found etched into Rayleigh’s features was unmistakable.

And then Roger was there, seeming entirely recovered from the night’s ordeals, and — “Jeez, if you two are planning on staying in bed all day the least you could do is pretend like I’m walking in on something,” he said, grin flashing as he leaned his weight against the frame.

“Out,” Rayleigh said, voice muffled by the pillow, but it didn’t deter his captain in the least.

“It’s past noon,” Roger said, before his eyes turned to Shakky. “So unless you’re planning on ravishing him, Shakky, I could use you both downstairs. We’ve got a few logistic kinks to work out."

Shakky would have smiled at the words, if it hadn’t been for the frustration that sat like an edge along her nerves, but, "Right behind you, Straw-chan," she managed, tucking her sigh beneath her tongue.

She felt more than heard Rayleigh’s, apparently unconcerned with demonstrating his own annoyance. “Give us five minutes,” he said, rubbing his hand over his face, and Roger’s grin brightened.

“For the ravishing or…?”

“ _Out_.”

Roger’s laughter followed him all the way downstairs, and despite herself Shakky had a hard time holding her smile back now. Because his timing might be poor—or entirely too appropriate, given the circumstances—but it was a small relief to wake and find that some things were still the same. Logistic kinks notwithstanding.

Rayleigh had closed his eyes again, and for a moment she just watched him, her earlier anticipation having fizzled out, leaving something softer, watching the deep furrow between his brows and taking in the ease with which they still shared such a close space. It could have been awkward, but even as she looked for it, it wasn't what she found.

“He’s going to come back if we don’t go downstairs,” she said then, and she heard his sigh — felt it, in the way the mattress shifted. And she thought then, out of the infinite possibilities that sprung out of every living moment, if there was one where she reached out to kiss him, to wind her hands through his hair and claim every single one of the five minutes Roger had teasingly acquiesced.

But if there was such a path it wasn’t the one she chose, and instead of anything resembling ravishing they rose in silence, the blankets pushed away, softer than the ones she’d gotten used to, sleeping in his bunk on the ship. She watched him put on his glasses and tie his hair back, and when she stretched her arms above her head, easing out the kinks in her shoulders, Shakky tucked her smile behind her arm and pretended she didn’t see where his gaze drifted.

He didn’t offer to carry her, and allowed her to descend the stairs first, one step and one careful hop at a time, and his presence a steady warmth at her back, ready to intervene if a misstep should send her sprawling.

The tiny common room was packed, and the innkeeper looked a little frazzled with the sheer amount of people gathered — more than had probably ever roomed there at once, but Roger’s grin was at its most infectious, and the kindly old lady kept nervously fixing her hair at the sight of it.

And — “Liquid breakfast?” Roger chirped when they entered, proffering a bottle, and Shakky gratefully accepted the glass when he put it down before her, before tossing it back.

“Another?”

“Please.”

They spent the afternoon drinking — “planning”, or at least that’s what Roger called it, although Shakky suspected it was more for his own benefit. He wouldn’t ask for company just for the sake of it, but she found herself inclined to provide it now, tossing back another drink as she listened to the crew swap stories, an affectionate if drunken homage to a ship that had carried them far, but she had no mind for gathering information now, heart heavy and the bottom of her glass gently mocking.

There’d been two casualties — a miraculous amount, given the chaos of the previous night, but it was a loss that was felt, regardless. One of them had been one of Roger’s cabin-boys; the one who’d called her _nee-chan_ , and the loss struck with an ache that lingered, long after she’d heard the news.

Rayleigh sat silent at her side, saying little, but when her glass was empty he refilled it, the gesture as wordless as Shakky’s gratitude, and with the hours passing the pleasant buzz of the alcohol helped take her mind off the loss — and the guilt, having resurfaced with a vengeance.

The freed slaves kept mostly to themselves, but they were there with them throughout the day, and Shakky had a wayward thought that some of them might ask Roger to join him when he left — like the young man who’d looked so skinny and sickly she’d thought him years younger than he really was, and who’d taken to interacting with the crew more readily than the rest. But the others still kept close, although Shakky couldn’t really blame them, keenly familiar now with that odd sense of safety Roger exuded. Not a pirate of the usual mould, but then that went for his entire crew.

And it was tempting, she thought — to take him up on the offer he’d made her, to join them. And maybe she would have, if things had been different; if it had been a different person who’d stepped aboard their ship, rather than the broken one who’d had to be carried. And she was still a little broken — her worldview had more cracks than her bones, but considering it now it wasn’t despair or self-pity she felt, only an odd sense of surety that she’d grow back stronger. Every part of her.

And, “I’m staying,” she announced, when a lull had settled between them. Roger had disappeared a while ago, under the guise of locating a meal that wasn’t in a bottle, and it was just the two of them now in the corner of the room, the setting sun slanting through the windows, thrown open to let the sea breeze in.

Looking up to find Rayleigh watching her, Shakky shrugged. “Straw-chan will grow restless soon, and you’ll need to find a new ship. And I think I can be useful here, at least until it’s time for me to move on.” She paused, considering her glass, before lifting her eyes to the room and the people seated around it. “These people…I want to help them.”

She didn’t glance at her leg now, but the weight of the cast had become a familiar thing. She allowed her mouth to lift, just a little. “And in my current state, I might need a little help, too.”

For a moment Rayleigh said nothing, but she had the feeling that he was pleased, although there was at once that acute feeling of teetering — as though either one of them might do something to tip the carefully even scales. And as she considered the thought she wondered if she wasn’t holding her breath.

“Roger will be sad to see you go,” he said then, and Shakky felt her smile widen, her soft exhale holding a quiet, knowing mirth.

“Just him?”

He hadn’t dropped his gaze from hers. “There'll be more room in my bunk,” he offered at length.

“Hmm. You don’t currently have a bunk.”

He allowed his smile to mirror hers. “Then I should put in a request. Once we get our new ship.”

“For a bigger bunk?” She laughed. “My, aren’t we optimistic.”

“Maybe Roger’s influence is finally getting to me.”

“Is that what it is?”

She held his gaze, still smiling, and when he put his glass down he allowed his hand to linger, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, but not enough to touch. _Teetering_ , she thought. Always teetering.

But, “Ask for a softer mattress this time,” she said then, before lifting her glass, knuckles brushing against his wrist, before she tipped it back smoothly. And when she put her glass back down it was to find his smile still in place, although he didn’t say anything.

Instead he refilled her drink again without being asked. But Shakky wasn’t surprised.

Somehow, she doubted she ever would be, when it came to him.

 

—

 

“Sure I can’t convince you to stay?”

The question was asked on the heels of her declaration, accompanied by a pout that Rayleigh was tempted to tell Roger didn’t suit a man his age. But knowing he’d likely only get an exaggerated grimace in return, he curbed his tongue, and calmly watched the confrontation unfold.

Shakuyaku had decided to stay with the freed slaves, and Rayleigh hadn’t questioned the decision, already acquainted with her reasons.

Roger did question it, but then that was Roger; entirely too shrewd for his own good, and cheerfully unwilling to accept decisions he didn’t agree with.

“Once we get a new ship, I’ll give you Rayleigh’s cabin,” he was saying then. “He can have one of the hammocks. Once we get hammocks, that is. Or I can just make him sleep on deck.”

She laughed, the quiet mirth of an intimate joke. “I think that arrangement would work against its intended purpose,” she mused, tossing Rayleigh a meaningful glance, and he felt his smile lift in response.

Roger gave a roll of his eyes. “Oh good grief—would you two make up your minds? You’d think you were together but you’re not, and  _you_ ,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Shakuyaku, “Up and leaving without so much as a backward glance. I know he’s not much to look at, but he’s got some redeeming qualities.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Oh, I’m well aware.”

“Then  _why_?”

She shrugged, the gesture all too easy, and Rayleigh doubted Roger was fooled. “It keeps things interesting.”

“So does kinky bedroom stuff, but I don’t see you doing _that_.”

“That you think we’d let you see it makes me glad we’re not doing that,” Rayleigh supplied dryly, cutting his captain a look. “Has anyone ever told you that you have no sense of personal boundaries?”

Roger grinned. “Yes. You, at least once a week.”

“And what you’ve gathered from that is…?”

“That you need to loosen up,” Roger quipped. “Right, Shakky?”

The casual use of her name hadn’t come as a surprise the first time he’d heard it, and knowing Roger, and the woman herself, Rayleigh knew the privilege must have been offered.

The amusement on her face lifted some of the shadows that had taken residence there of late, because for all that she claimed no part of their crew, Rayleigh knew she’d felt their losses as her own. “I don’t know, Straw-chan,” she said. “I think the tense look suits him.”

Roger pouted. “You’re invalidating years of hard work here! How am I supposed to convince him to loosen up if he’s got it in his head that you’d prefer that he doesn’t?”

When she looked at him now Rayleigh held her gaze, and tried no smile when she said, “I have a feeling he’d go his own way, regardless of either of our preferences.”

An exaggerated sigh met her words. “You could at least try to sound a little miffed,” Roger muttered. “A _twinge_ upset with this arrangement?”

Her smile was entirely too clever, but her amusement was softened by the honesty that sat in her gaze, entirely visible, and likely because she meant for it to be so.

“I’ll miss you, Straw-chan,” Shakuyaku said then. “I hope you know that.”

Despite his earlier pout, Roger’s grin wasn't hard to beckon. “I’ll be back in your life soon enough, I think,” he said, and the look he shot Rayleigh wasn’t even trying to be subtle. Then again, Rayleigh doubted Roger had ever in his life attempted anything resembling subtlety.

Someone called her name then — one of the freed slaves who she’d taken to as a companion of sorts, after their most recent ordeal. And for all that she’d once claimed she got on better on her own, Rayleigh had found a different truth in the way she’d made a place for herself among them — and among their crew.

Dark eyes finding his for the span of a breath, Shakuyaku let her gaze drop, and then she left them with that too-clever smile, a limp to her step as she gingerly made her way towards the door to the inn.

Rayleigh watched her go, her parting words remaining in her wake, along with the lingering smell of cigarette smoke, although just who she’d charmed a pack from in this backwater place was beyond him.

“One day, Rayleigh,” Roger sighed then, when she was well out of earshot. “When you’re old and grey and hopefully retired, you’ll think back on this moment and say ‘holy shit, what an idiot I was’.”

His smile was wry now. “You sound sure about that.”

“Call it a feeling.”

“That I’ll one day have loosened up like you’ve always hoped, and stopped being an idiot?”

Roger shot him a look. “If you ever manage to keep her around, I don’t see any other alternative. You’re different around her,” he said. “Relaxed. Less prone to snapping at the youngins.” He shrugged. “It suits you, and I don't care what she says—she'll come around. Just you wait.”

Rayleigh considered the words, and the woman at their heart, soon to take her leave of them. And it was a curious thought, after days with her constant company, imagining what it would be like without her. There’d be more clean shirts for him to wear no doubt, and more space in whatever bed he found to sleep in, but somehow he didn’t question the fact that neither seemed like improvements.

“She makes room for herself,” he said, after a lull had passed. Then, sliding Roger a glance, “She’s like you, in that regard.”

“You can pretend all you want that you’re annoyed, but I know you better than that. I'm pretty sure she does, too.”

Rayleigh smiled, but didn’t disagree. “So one hopes.”

“He says, and yet seems cheerfully at peace with letting his girlfriend pack her bags and jump ship. Well, she would if we had one. Eh, you get the picture.”

Roger regarded him closely then, as though he could somehow find the answer if he just concentrated hard enough. “Is it the commitment that’s got you freaked?” he asked. “Because you know, it’s not the worst fate. It might be worth it, even if you’ve both apparently decided to toss it all overboard. Explain to me again why that is?”

“I haven’t explained it to you to begin with,” Rayleigh pointed out.

“Then do that, and then say it one more time, because I’m pretty sure I’ll need two separate explanations to understand  _why_.”

Rayleigh spared a glance to the quiet waters. The little port sat drenched in the afternoon sunlight, and the waves pushing against the single fishing boat bobbing in the water yielded none of the secrets of the sea beyond the cove — the two ships, likely having sunk to the ocean floor now. It was time for a change of course, but his acceptance was a calm thing, requiring as little effort in this as it had in accepting Shakuyaku's decision.

He hadn't asked her for an explanation — not explicitly, but then he hadn't needed to. He'd found his place on this sea, and didn't question anymore whether it was the right one for him. His own decisions he tended to dwell on, and he hadn’t lied when he’d told her, but one thing he felt certain of, even if he couldn’t explain just why he felt that way, was that he was right where he was supposed to be.

Of course, he had questioned it once, as Roger sometimes liked to remind him. And as he had a good decade on Shakuyaku, Rayleigh didn't hold it against her that she needed time to figure things out for herself. It was a curiously simple thing to accept, even as he knew that distance could work both ways. Hearts didn’t always grow fonder, as the old adage claimed, but he’d rather she took her time deciding what she wanted, than to regret it and bid him good riddance.

And he figured that, for all his outward dramatics and claims to the opposite, Roger had guessed her reasons well enough. And he’d probably even gathered what hadn’t been said — the implied invitation for their paths to cross again. His earlier remark had suggested as much, anyway, and Rayleigh thought he ought to draw some surety from that.

Still. It was a lot to hinge your hopes on, in a world like theirs. The events of the past few days was evidence enough of that.

“The sea takes as it sees fit,” Rayleigh said after the silence had stretched long between them, realising belatedly that he hadn't yielded the thoughts leading up to the remark, but finding that curious certainty that Roger would understand, anyway. “Isn’t that what you’re always saying?”

Roger looked like he’d swallowed something sour. “God, you’re pessimistic today. It’s making me itch.” He shook his head, but when Rayleigh looked at him next his expression had turned serious. “The sea gives and takes. Like the tide, you know? There’s a balance to it—good things and bad things in equal measure.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very accurate science. Unlike the actual tide.”

Roger only grinned. “Maybe not right now, but one day you’ll feel differently, I think. I’d bet money on it, actually.”

Rayleigh slid him a glance. “And which day would that be?”

His captain looked out across the cove and the waters beyond, eyes curving at the corners, and Rayleigh had that recurring and uncanny feeling that Roger saw something quite different on the horizon than just sea and sky.

“One day when you’ve finally convinced your girl to stick around,” he began then, as though he could picture it. “Knowing you, you’ll be old as balls by then, but she seems like the type who wouldn’t care about a little grey in your hair, so I guess it all adds up. But when that day comes, you’ll look out across the sea, Rayleigh, and you’ll  _feel_  it—that shift, realising that all you’ve ever done has been leading up to this moment. I think it’s one of those things that comes for everyone."

Then, wryly, "Hopefully you’ll feel that the good stuff outweighs the bad, but you won’t know until it’s upon you,” he added. And with a shrug, “Although I guess that's half the fun.”

Rayleigh considered him, and the grin that had taken up residence on his face. And he couldn’t say just what prompted him to ask, but, “And have you felt that shift, Captain?”

Roger’s grin widened. “No,” he said, with that staggering surety that took immense force of will to wrap one’s mind around. The same kind of will it took to accept what he said next without questioning either the reasoning or the belief behind the words—

“I’m still waiting for it.”

 

—

 

They parted ways a few days later, the sun sitting low in the sky and the waters bleeding pink beneath a red horizon.

The breeze sifted through her short hair, ruffling the dark, downy strands, and Rayleigh watched as she took a deep breath, smile curving beneath a nose that had mostly healed, aside from the vivid bruise that still clung to her skin. She was still wearing his shirt, most of it stuffed into the waistline of her trousers, and she’d pilfered the new jacket he’d procured since their arrival. It was much too large on her frame, but she wore it with a confidence that named it hers, regardless.

It was—difficult, tearing his eyes away from the sight.

“Have you decided where you’ll open your bar?” he asked as they came to a stop, a stone’s throw away from the docks where they’d readied the ship for sailing; a vessel barely big enough for the lot of them, but it was enough to get them to a bigger port, and would serve its purpose until they could find a new one.

He didn’t know where Roger had gotten his hands on it—or the money they were leaving with, given that they’d arrived with empty pockets—and he hadn’t asked, having learned his lesson years ago. But it sat in the water behind them now, the rest of the crew unashamedly watching, but Rayleigh paid them no mind. And from her ease, Shakuyaku seemed inclined to do the same.

He watched as she considered the little inn sitting just beyond the gravelled street behind them, the cheerful sign announcing live music and ale for weary travellers, although there were few of those to be had. He doubted this place saw much of the same visitors as the bigger towns, at least going by the fact that there was only one tavern. And he caught the contemplative hum that rose from her, before she turned her eyes to him.

“Not yet,” she said at length. Then, smile stretching, “Why? Fishing for an address?”

“Would you give it to me if I was?”

She grinned, face turned towards the sky then, and for a moment Rayleigh wondered what she was thinking. And then fast on its heels was the thought that this might be the last time they ever saw each other. It certainly seemed a fitting place for it, the setting sun and their quiet parting taken into consideration, and he wasn’t surprised to find his reaction to the thought as severe as it was.

Shakuyaku tilted her head then, meeting his gaze with her own, and he wondered if she’d caught on to where his thoughts had travelled. But there was something else in her expression as well, something he’d seen before — as though there was a joke she hadn’t yet decided if she should make him privy to.

“If you want to find me, Ray-san,” she said, “you’ll have to look.”

His smile came quite of its own accord. “Is that a challenge?”

She shrugged one shoulder elegantly, but she wasn’t bothering to stifle her own smile. “It is what you make of it.”

And there it was again — an echo of their conversation, long days behind them now. And it would have been easy just to leave it at that, to let the Fates decide in truth, if they bothered with such mortal things, whether or not their paths would cross again. It was a painfully simple matter, the figurative coin-toss they’d agreed on, to leave it up to the sea, or to destiny. Perhaps she was even the same lady, just in different guises.

But the fact that it was so painfully simple made the implication all the greater, realising that this might well be the last time. And he wasn’t like Roger — he couldn’t hinge his faith entirely on destiny and hope it was the right decision, and believe that he’d one day know for sure.

Sometimes, maybe destiny needed a little incentive.

Aware that they were being watched, Rayleigh ignored it, and when he took a step toward her Shakuyaku didn’t flinch, but he saw the way her brows shot up in surprise — and anticipation, he noticed next, finding her breath catching, like it had that afternoon, watching her from across the pillow and thinking he'd never wanted anything quite as selfishly as he did her.

Curving his hand around the back of her head, the soft strands of her hair parting beneath his fingers, he pulled her to him, and when he kissed her Rayleigh found he wasn’t surprised when she sank against him in response, nimble hands lifting to grip his jaw, angling his head to deepen it, until he felt his glasses tilt on his nose.

And when she parted her lips, her small frame pressed flush against his and her hands delving into his hair, gripping with enough force to pull some of it loose of its cord, it was an effort to remember that they were in public.

It wasn’t like their first, prompted by a sudden urge to give her a taste of her own medicine — or like their second, almost too chaste to count. And this wasn’t about giving an answer; she knew that already. No, if anything, this was a reminder. And if there was so much as a sliver of doubt left for her to take with her and to dwell on, he hoped to wipe it from her mind.

When she drew back it was with a breath that left her laughing, but she didn't pull away, and he felt it — felt her racing heartbeat, and every heaving breath. And he heard the hoot of laughter drifting from the ship—and something that sounded distinctly like _‘I give it a five out of ten, Rayleigh, put your back into it next time!’_ —but couldn’t bring himself to mind. Roger would no doubt bring it up later — and often, if Rayleigh knew him.

“I’d almost forgotten,” she said then, enticingly breathless, and her tongue darting out along her lower lip as she raised her eyes to his, “that you were really good at that.”

Rayleigh smiled. And he didn’t know what he meant to say — something clever, perhaps, along the lines that he hoped she wouldn’t forget again. Or something more earnest — that he hoped she knew that he didn’t take their parting lightly.

As it was, he didn’t get further than “Shakuyaku—”

“Shakky,” she said, cutting him off smoothly, and the syllables rolling off her tongue with ease. An offering, but different than the one she’d given Roger, he knew — heard it, in the way she wrapped her tongue around the sound of it, a keenly intimate thing.

“Are we friends?” Rayleigh asked, because for all the things between them that didn’t need saying, this felt like it did.

She smiled. “Oh no,” she said, the words a low murmur. And with her fingers curled around the collar of his shirt she lifted up on her toes, tilting her head to kiss the corner of his mouth.

Then she was sinking back on her good heel, fingers trailing down his chest before finally letting it drop. And he heard her next words, curving warm with a grin he didn’t need to see to recognise, although the most profound realisation of all was the weight of his coin-purse still in his pocket, untouched—

“We’re not  _that_.”

 


	9. the spinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update! I promise I haven't forgotten about this fic.

The next time they met was two years later, and…arguably under less-than-ideal circumstances.

The chime of the doorbell reached her ears where she sat behind the bar, a list of inventory in her lap and a glass tumbler on the floor beside her. From her vantage point she couldn’t see who’d entered, but the tentative whine of the hinges told her enough — pirates and marines were never so hesitant, which meant the arrival fell into the third category of those who usually frequented her establishment, and she was certain of that even before the voice called out—

“Um—hello?”

“Down here,” Shakky called, putting the list on the counter above her, before pushing to her feet. Her ankle protested the movement but she ignored the familiar ache, removing her cigarette from between her lips to tap it against the ashtray sitting on the edge of the bar.

The visitor was a girl, hesitating just beyond the doorway. The sunlight filtering through the stained glass in the door at her back threw shafts of red and blue-green across the hardwood floors, half-obscured by her small shape. A pretty thing — not much older than Shakky, dark hair cropped short, tinged with green from the sun, and eyes that swallowed up her face.

And it was in the eyes that Shakky found it, the confirmation to what she’d already suspected. Since setting up shop she’d grown proficient in picking them out, too-old eyes in too-young faces.

But, “Can I help you?” she asked, because she didn’t run her business on assumptions.

The girl didn’t step closer, but the sight of Shakky seemed to have settled her nervousness somewhat, at least enough for it not to sit quite so bright on her face. She was hardly mollified, but she no longer looked like she wanted to bolt out the door. And maybe there was advice there, to not judge so quickly by appearance — that kind faces could hide cruelty, but from the look of her, Shakky suspected she’d had her share of the latter.

And she didn’t run her business on intimidation, either.

“I was—I'd heard,” the girl said then, nervous fingers fiddling with the fabric of her blouse; an old thing, the cream colour faded and the embroidered pattern of birds in flight stark shadows against the pale fabric. It was of a surprisingly fine make, despite showing obvious signs of wear. Stolen, most likely — or given, perhaps, if she’d been lucky, but Shakky stored the thought away, as the girl stuttered out, “that you were the one to come to.”

Shakky allowed an ambiguous smile to touch the corner of her mouth, as she leaned her arms on the counter. “Is that so?” She was fairly certain the girl was in earnest, but she was cautious these days — had to be, with the amount of questionable clientele who walked in and out of her doors at their own leisure. It was a necessity in order to run her real business without alerting the authorities—or worse, those who ruled in darker places—and she’d burned herself once, going in blind. Her ankle was a cheerful enough reminder of that.

“It depends on what you’re looking for,” she said, when the girl hadn’t made to continue. “I am an information broker. And this is a bar, which leaves you with two options.” Ostensibly, at least. The third was implied, and available for those who knew what to ask for — and how to ask for it.

“So what will it be?” Shakky asked. “News or a drink?”

The girl hesitated, hands worrying the front of her blouse. She had the same restless and haunted look about her that Shakky had long since learned to recognise, but there was something hard and stubborn sitting underneath.

 _Good_ , Shakky thought. The ones who had lost that rarely made it further than her doorstep, for all the help she could offer. You’d have to want it — freedom. And there were a lot who came to her hoping she could give it to them, but she could only provide the means to reach it, not freedom itself.

A breath then, pushed out past her lips, and, “I’d like a drink,” the girl said.

Eyes gleaming, Shakky lifted her cigarette to her mouth. “You sure? I charge a steep price.”

Her mouth pressed in a determined line. “I’m willing to pay,” she said, with the care of a well-rehearsed script.

Shakky smiled. “Then you’ve come to the right place.” And bending down to retrieve a bottle from under the counter, “But since you look like you actually need one,” she added, holding it up, along with an empty glass. “How about one on the house?”

A relieved look chased across her face, before she nodded once, and when Shakky poured her drink she made to move towards the bar, some hesitation sitting in her rigid shoulders, but her steps carrying her forward despite it. It was a silent contract, nothing to sign and no paper trail, but Shakky found most contracts were easier to digest with a potent shot of alcohol.

“What would you like to be called?” Shakky asked, as the girl took a sip of her drink. Not _what’s your name_ , because she’d learned early on that it was the wrong thing to ask — had learned that so many of them didn’t know, and for various reasons; that they’d had another name ingrained, and so deeply that they hardly remembered who they’d been before.

It was the first step to reclaiming themselves, discarding old names and numbers given to them by others. It was a choice, and one she always offered.

Staring into her glass, the girl worried her lower lip between her teeth. And this was the second step — and often the hardest, Shakky knew, at least depending on where they’d come from.

When she didn’t speak, Shakky hummed. “Birdy-chan,” she said then, nodding to the little birds embroidered on her blouse. “Until you find a better one.”

The girl looked relieved, and nodded, her shoulders sinking a bit with the effort. Shakky recognised the signs — that wary hope that had for so long begged to be contained, but that pushed against the surface, evident in small, nervous gestures like the twitching of fingers not used to being idle, or glances stolen over a tense shoulder, expecting to find someone watching.

“So,” Shakky said then, when she’d finished her drink. “I won’t ask where you come from, but I’ll listen if you want to tell me. All I need to know is what you need from me.” Most cases were pretty standard — a new identity, and she had a good forger at hand to make them papers that would pass a pretty thorough scrutiny. Others were trickier — brands that needed masking, or removal. Bounties on their heads. Some just wanted to go home, but _home_ was far from a simple concept, in her line of work.

“Papers,” the girl said, after a moment. “I was told you make that.”

Shakky smiled. “Not me personally, but I have someone. Anything else? Transportation?” Dossier in hand now, she was jotting down the information.

A nod. “Please.”

“Sooner rather than later, I take it?”

Another nod, and the girl’s grip tightened on her glass. “There’s no rush. I mean—there’s no one…looking. I don’t think. But—”

“But you’d rather get off the island than linger,” Shakky finished for her, when she didn’t continue. She didn’t pry, for all her love of rumours and gossip. These weren’t her stories to collect.

“Have you been doing this long?” the girl asked then, nervous fingers plucking at the tumbler in her hand. Questions to distract, when the burn of the drink had relented. Shakky had heard them all.

And so, “Doing what?” she asked. “Barkeeping? Or smuggling escapees under the Government’s nose?”

A small smile. “The last one.”

Shakky blew out a curl of smoke. “Not long on both counts, actually—a year or so since I got this place properly up and running.”

The girl cast a glance about the room, dark eyes taking in the low ceiling beams, and the polished floors. The windows were stained with colour, like the front door; little nods to her old mam’s cottage, which had spilled rainbows across the cramped kitchen every morning, Shakky remembered. Another was the bushes planted beneath the windows outside, thick with peonies; the cheerful exterior doing its job in keeping her business from attracting unwanted attention.

Well— _too much_ unwanted attention.

“They say there’s something unnatural about this place,” the girl said then, turning her eyes back to Shakky. “That you’re not—” She stopped, and seemed suddenly embarrassed.

Shakky’s smile quirked. “That I’m not…? Human?”

The blush darkening her cheeks told her enough, and Shakky let out a delighted laugh.

She’d heard. Some of the rumours surrounding her business were charmingly fanciful — a liminal space; a fae crossing that both existed and didn’t, and at the centre of it all, a broker who traded in hearsay and who could make people disappear.

She wasn’t too proud to admit that she loved the concept.

“Y-you are, obviously,” the girl said then.

Shakky smiled, gaze touching the far corners of her quiet home. Or, quiet for the moment, anyway. “I wonder.”

It wasn’t big, but it was hers — once a small, derelict shop that she’d convinced the former landlord to yield into her keeping, in exchange for the Government not discovering the fact that he had more unregistered holdings in his name than he paid taxes for. And it hadn’t been easy, her ankle and bruises still healing, but she’d gotten to work; had polished the floors and painted the walls, and gotten her business up and running from scratch. She kept her cupboards stacked and her customers happy, and it was a reputable enough establishment — she had a few regulars, marines and pirates alike who stopped by on their travels.

And when she closed her doors, she welcomed other clientele — those who came escaping trouble, and those who came to offer help. Her forger got his pound of flesh from the more reputable part of her business, and in turn, helped her with her other. The Ferryman stopped by once every month to provide transport off the island. Shakky didn’t know his name, and suspected it was part of what had given her business such an otherworldly repute.

And there were others — pirates who welcomed willing new members into their crews and didn’t ask questions, and even one navy officer who came by once in a while for those whose inclinations ran more in line with the law.

It was, in a lot of ways, a fae place — a junction between worlds where deals were signed with looks and the clink of glasses, and people passed through never to be seen again. And at the heart of it all was Shakky, overseeing that everything went the way it should. No longer the harbinger of trouble, but one who bartered in it. The Spinner with her complicated web.

She wondered what he’d think of it, if he ever did stop by like he’d promised.

“What made you start?” the girl asked then, drawing Shakky’s thoughts back from the sun setting on a small seaside port, the gold of it caught and held in a pair of round glasses, glinting like that rare smile that made his eyes curve at the corners. “If you, ah, don’t mind my asking.”

Shakky considered the bottom of her glass; the careful tumult of amber liquid as she tipped it slightly in her hand. Two years, and some memories clung with more insistence than others. She couldn’t quite remember the cadence of his voice but could conjure the inside of that slaver in a single breath — remembered every odd shadow and smell, down to that unique odour of piss and sweat mixed together.

But then, not all memories were made with kisses, and didn’t yield quite as quickly. Her ankle was long healed, but had left her with a slight limp. Her nose didn’t quite sit as straight as it once had.

Taking a drag of her cigarette, she let it fill her chest, until the hollow space didn’t feel quite so yawning.

“A close encounter,” she said at length, exhaling. “Let’s say I was inspired.”

She knew most suspected — that whatever she found in their eyes, there were shadows of the same ghosts in her own. But no one ever asked for the story, although Shakky suspected they didn’t have to. That they knew it well enough, although in different words.

“So, Birdy-chan,” she said then, putting out her cigarette and closing her dossier. It was a little while until her regular opening hours, and most who sought her help in this regard came after closing, which meant her inventory check would have to wait if the girl wanted things settled immediately. But Shakky didn’t mind the change in routine. There were more important things to content with, after all, than her current supply of rum.

“Let’s see if I can’t make you disappear.”

 

—

 

Her regular opening hours lasted until midnight, and then for three hours into the morning she opened her doors for other folk — the ones who knew what to look for, which bell to ring and what questions to ask. And when all was said and done for the night she put her dossiers away and retired to her own space, dragging tired limbs into her too-large bed until the soft mattress sank beneath her, her decent into oblivion instantaneous, and her body kind enough to not let her thoughts linger in the dark.

This night was no exception. Other than the girl who’d stopped by that morning there’d been no one else, but she’d spent a few hours with her forger, going over payments and plans. A few slivers of hearsay had found their way into her keeping — news from the other Blues, some of which she’d already heard. All in all, it had been a quiet evening, and a quieter night.

At least until she was dragged out of sleep by someone hammering on her front door.

A single heartbeat was all it took to rouse her into alertness, and then she was pushing off the mattress, reaching for the dressing robe thrown over the back of her armchair. A thin, silky slip of a thing — a very deliberate choice, for those who came with darker business in mind and weren’t prepared for a distraction. It truly was remarkable how much time you could buy yourself by flashing a bit of leg.

Padding across the carpet of her bedroom, Shakky made her way down the cramped staircase, pistol loaded and heavy in her hand, but her breath sitting with ease in her chest. It wasn’t often that people sought her out after opening hours, official and otherwise, and the few times someone did it was usually just a desperate soul who had no mind left to spare for the hour of the day.

But even truly desperate souls were usually subtler than _this_  — and used the bell, rather than try and break down her door. And there was a moment where her heart stuttered in her chest, before she forced it to settle.

The dark didn’t allow her to see more than a blur through the stained glass, but it was a large shape, she gathered that much. And they were still knocking, almost cheerfully, as though it wasn’t four in the morning, and for a moment her irritation overcame her wariness, and with a mind to catch them by surprise, Shakky made to unlatch the lock.

She’d barely removed the latch before the door was suddenly being pushed inwards, and all she could do was leap out of the way as Roger stumbled inside, his unconscious first mate slung haphazardly over one shoulder.

And she was so thoroughly taken off guard, Shakky couldn’t find any one of her nicknames.

Or her voice, for that matter.

“Ah, Shakky!” Roger laughed, his grin making his moustache lift, and for a moment she was so distracted by the sight of it she forgot what she’d been about to say. “Sorry for barging in like this. You have somewhere I can dump this weight? Oh, and maybe a suture kit.”

That was when she noticed the blood dripping over her floors, and down the front of Roger’s coat.

It was what shook her loose of the shock.

“ _Roger_? What—” she was asking then, as Roger made to ease his unconscious partner onto the floor, and for a moment Shakky didn’t know what to do with her hands, suddenly aware of the pistol still in her grip, but she deposited it without another thought, joining Roger where he’d kneeled down to check Rayleigh’s pulse.

He was clean out cold — a small marvel in and of itself, but she had no time to ponder it long, worry taking over at the sight of his face. His glasses were gone, either broken or removed, although she had a feeling it was the first, as she took in the sight of the viciously deep cut running down the right side of his face, bisecting his cheek and brow.

“Bar brawl,” Roger chirped then, as though that explained everything.

“ _Bar brawl?_ ”

“Yeah, we ran into Garp—”

“ _Garp?_ ”

“—and a small navy platoon. And you know how it is, you’ve had one drink too many, someone gets cocky—okay, _I_ got cocky, not Rayleigh, I mean could you imagine? But before you know it there’s an all-out brawl, and more marines in one room than there should be outside of an actual base—”

Shakky looked up from where she was trying to stifle the bleeding. It was seeping through her fingers and into the silk of her dressing robe, but she hardly had a mind for it, distracted by the eerie stillness of Rayleigh’s features, and Roger’s baffling calm. “And _this_?”

“Oh—yeah. Some rookie marine got mighty confident with a broken bottle. It was dirty move.” He grinned, and she’d forgotten that it took some adjustment to keep up with his terrible ease in dramatic situations.

Like his first mate bleeding out on the floor of her bar.

Roger had helped himself to a kitchen towel from behind the counter, and was holding it out for her to take. There was so much blood — there were smaller, shallow cuts along his jaw and neck, but the one over his eye looked alarmingly deep, and she almost didn’t want to think about whether his eye had suffered the same, or if his brow and cheek and gotten the worst of it. She tried to remember where she’d tucked away her med-kit.

“Garp clocked him for it,” Roger said then, squatting down beside her as she made to stifle the bleeding with the cloth. “The rookie, not Rayleigh. Poor kid went down like a tree. Garp was _pissed_. Good thing he’s an honourable bastard, or we’d probably be locked up.”

Watching the blood seeping through the linen, Shakky found she wasn’t inclined to feel sorry for the boy, and chanced about for something better to staunch the bleeding. But unless she stripped down completely she had nothing else at hand, and although she doubted Roger would bat so much as an eye, she figured a more permanent solution was better than further ruining her dressing robe.

“Check behind the counter,” she told him then. “There should be a kit stacked in the bottom cupboard.”

Wordlessly, Roger moved to follow her instructions, and Shakky turned her gaze back to Rayleigh, still unconscious. Two years hadn’t changed him much, aside from a few veins of silver in his hair, but he looked strange without his glasses — although she wondered if that wasn’t the panic speaking, the one she felt pushing up her throat as Roger took his sweet time locating her med-kit.

“You better not be pouring yourself a drink, Gold Roger, or so help me—”

She watched his head pop up from behind the counter, grin firmly in place. The moustache looked ridiculous, and she almost blurted as much, when he said, “You know, only my mother calls me by my full name with that inflection. And Rayleigh, when he’s angry. He probably would now, if he was conscious.”

“ _Roger._ ”

“Also, ‘Gold Roger’ isn’t my actual name, you know. It’s—”

“I don’t care what your name is, just get over here!”

His grin hadn’t so much as slipped, and Shakky spared a passing lament to his infuriatingly easy-going nature, even as she felt her heart settle a bit, knowing she was probably the one overreacting. Although to be fair, it was her floors covered in blood. And her kitchen towel.

“Roger, where’s your doctor?” Shakky asked then, as he put the med-kit down beside her, and she reached bloodied hands to extract what she needed to clean the wound, movements almost mechanical now that she’d forced herself to calm down a bit.

“Oh, Suze? She retired.”

She tossed him an incredulous look. “And you didn’t get a new one?”

“Well, we’ve been looking, but we haven’t had any luck yet. Figures something like this would happen, though. I mean you know Rayleigh, magnet for trouble that he is.”

The look she shot him attempted to be reproachful, and he held up his hands. “Hey, I’m only following directions here.” Then motioning to Rayleigh’s prone form, “He was the one who said to go _here_  —said that you were good with a needle. A bit impressive that he managed to give directions, seeing as he was about to pass out, but—”

“Wait,” Shakky said, mind racing to catch up now. “What? How did you say you found me?”

Roger raised a brow. Then, pointing towards the door, “Your name is on the sign out front. In _really_ big script.”

She countered his raised brow with one of her own, and Roger shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know how he found out, but he’s the reason we docked here. Honest. I had no idea this was where you were before I was dragging his dead weight to your doorstep. Nice place, though! And sorry about the floor.”

Shakky shook her head, and was about to offer him some choice words about his breezy attitude when she felt Rayleigh stirring under her hands, and looked down in time to see him open his eyes — then clamp the right one shut, and a curse slipped under her breath as the action yielded a fresh flow of blood.

“Hey, you’re awake!” Roger laughed, and Shakky watched Rayleigh’s good eye attempt to track the sound. He seemed a bit disoriented, but then she couldn’t blame him, given the sheer mount of blood he’d deposited on her doorstep — and her robe. “Talk about a bad time to take a nap—I had to carry you half the way! You’re lucky Garp didn’t catch up with us.”

At the mention, Shakky was half-expecting the marine himself to come barging through the door, but there was nothing. But given what Roger had told her, Garp might be busy giving his subordinates an earful.

“I’m on the floor,” Rayleigh said then, the observation curious, and the sound of his voice had something foolish leaping in her chest.

“You’ve slept in worse places, I wager,” Shakky said then, and watched as her voice dragged his gaze towards her — the sudden alertness undeniably gratifying.

“Hey, boy scout,” she said, smoothing his hair back from his brow, and watched as realisation dawned, enough to make the corner of his mouth lift a fraction, before the pain turned it into a grimace. “Looks like you found me. Along with a whole host of trouble, although I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

She heard him laugh — felt the sharp inhale that followed, before his feature drew together in pain. Blood trickled down his temple. “Where you are concerned, one is rarely far from the other,” he said, the low rumble prompting her smile to stretch.

“And yet I’m not the one bleeding on the floor.”

A crooked smile. “This time.”

“Mind who you give that cheek, now,” she laughed, the sound harder than she’d intended. “I’ll be the one stitching up your wound in a moment.”

She was mindful of Roger observing the interaction, but found she didn’t mind what she let slip — that her voice didn’t quite manage to convey the ease she’d hoped, considering the open gash, and the blood running down his face, to gather in his hair. She reached to wipe some of it away.

Rayleigh only smiled, although when he spoke next his voice sounded oddly slurred, “Somehow, I’m not worried.”

Shakky shook her head, but whatever comeback she’d planned she swallowed it when his good eye suddenly rolled back in his head, and she felt him go limp. Heart leaping in her throat, she let slip an oath—

“He’s just unconscious,” Roger said, even as she scrambled to search for a pulse. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but I can still feel his haki.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she let a sigh gust out of her, and was surprised when it fell with a laugh. The events of the past fifteen minutes catching up with her felt rather like someone had tossed her headfirst over a table in a bar fight of her own. But she shoved it all to the side in favour of the task in front of her now, and the leap of his pulse where she felt it against her fingers, before she reached up to touch them against his brow.

“He’s missed you,” Roger said then, as Shakky pulled her hand back, to reach for the kit. There was some surgical gauze that she unrolled, to press against the cut.

She threw him a patient look, and pretended he couldn’t see right through her. “Is that what he’d tell me if he wasn’t out cold?”

“Probably not in so many words,” he laughed. “But that’s what I’m here for.”

“What, to translate?” she asked. But when she dragged a breath into her lungs she felt a bit better — a bit calmer, even with the pungent smell of blood seeping into her nose, and the task awaiting her. The fact that she was crouched on the floor of her bar in nothing but her dressing robe. _I could really use a cigarette right about now._

Rayleigh’s shirt was a mess, and his hair stained copper from the blood, but she cleaned his face as best she could, to get a better look at the gash. His brow seemed to have taken the brunt of the attack, and when she checked his eye seemed fine, although she would have to take another look when he woke up again. Her medical skills were rudimentary at best, and however steady her hands her stitches would no doubt leave a worse scar than in the care of a trained doctor, but there was nothing to be done about that now.

Although she spared a thought to that grumpy old ship’s doctor, who’d insulted and complimented her in the same breath, and who’d told her, cackling, _kid, get yours._

Roger watched her ministrations in silence, and in it Shakky felt the weight of his presence settling, and all the things his good humour had hid, when he’d burst through her door earlier. And she thought of what he’d told her two years ago, about morale, and felt the effect of it now — the sudden calm that gripped her tense muscles, forcing them to relax, and the clench of gratitude deep in her gut.

“You’re good at that,” she said after a lull, eyes still fixed on Rayleigh’s face. “Keeping a level head in dire straits.”

She didn’t see him smile, but she could imagine it easily enough — and heard it when he said, “It helps when you’ve got someone you trust on your team.”

“You were trusting him not to bleed out before you got here?”

“I trusted that _you’d_ know what to do when we did.”

She looked up at that, only to find him watching her, dark gaze level and keenly knowing. And there hadn’t been so much as a moment’s hesitation before he’d said it, although looking at him now, Shakky didn’t wonder why she wasn’t surprised.

“On your team, hmm? You haven’t changed, Straw-chan,” she said then, a smile lifting the corner of her mouth.

Roger’s grin stretched wider. “One of these days, Shakky,” was all he said. A favourite saying of his, Shakky had learned, and one that implied more than baseless confidence. It was a curious sort of certainty, given that she was half-inclined to believe it herself, and for all the rumours that pegged her as something other than entirely human, Shakky couldn’t help but think that Roger was the truly uncanny creature to have ever stepped across her threshold.

“I think I've got the worst of the bleeding under control,” she said then, after another long pause had passed. She still had a thick wad of gauze pressed to the wound, but she couldn’t work on it here — she needed to wash her hands first, and find some better light. She kept a tidy bar, but emergency surgery on the floor? That was pushing it.

“Help me get him to my bedroom?” she asked Roger then, as she made to grab the med-kit. Her robe was a mess, and there was blood all over her floors. She would have to clean it up in the morning, but for now she’d settle for a change of clothes — and a stiff drink before she got to work.

Roger laughed, the sound startling in the quiet, and for a moment Shakky wondered what she’d said, before he looked at her, wide grin entirely clever, and far too cheerful given the blood seeping into his coat and shirt—

“ _Finally._  I thought you'd never ask, I’ve been trying since we met!”

 

—

 

He woke in an unfamiliar bed to a throbbing pain in the right side of his face, centred around his eye, through which he could see nothing, although it took him a moment to deduce that the reason was the bandage wrapped around his head, not that he’d gone blind.

Although right on the heels of the first thought followed another — that given the bandage, it might well be the case.

“Relax,” came the voice from somewhere to his left, and Rayleigh turned his head to find Roger, seated in an armchair with his feet propped on the mattress, reading a newspaper.

“You’re not blind,” he said then, as though having sensed where his thoughts had gone. Lowering the paper, Roger flashed him a grin. “Or what do I know? You might be. But eyepatches are in fashion in our profession, so it could be worse.”

Blinking into the light, Rayleigh tried to focus past the insistent throbbing. Without his glasses, it was hard to see anything beyond the low ceiling beams directly above his head, and the large, plush armchair Roger had deposited himself in. But there was an elaborate armoire to his captain’s right that he could make out, and some personal things strewn about — books stacked on a low table, and flowers in a vase on the windowsill. Not an inn, then — and not an infirmary, either.

The night before came back to him, dragging its feet, and it took a few moments to collect his thoughts — the bar brawl that had taken an unexpected turn, and the blinding pain that obscured most of the details from said brawl. But he remembered Roger’s voice in his ear, and the light-headedness that had gripped him before his vision had bled dark.

“Where are we?”

Roger grinned, and even before he spoke, Rayleigh remembered — another thought slipping through the haze, to fit itself neatly into the chaos; the image of her face looking down on him, her eyes dark and worried and blood soaking through the rosy silk clinging to her frame. He didn’t think he’d dreamt that — or was reasonably certain, anyway.

And, “'Shakky’s Outrageously Priced Bar',” Roger said, confirming his suspicions, and leaning back in the armchair he’d apparently claimed as his own. “I have to hand it to her—she’s honest, your girl.”

“Who’s honest? Not talking about me, are you?”

The voice dragged his gaze to the doorway, and he had to incline his head with the bandage over his eye, but he found her — a cigarette perched between slender fingers and a familiar smile tucked into the corner of her mouth, the slightly blurry shape of it coming into focus as she stepped into the room. Her bedroom, Rayleigh surmised, by the soft mattress of the bed alone.

“You know, I’m thinking of changing the name,” Shakky mused. “It doesn’t have quite the right ring to it.”

She’d grown her hair out — that was the first thing he noticed, once his gaze had focused enough to see her clearly. She kept it short, and it curled just below her ears, the sharp cut framing her face, but the eyes holding his were the same as he remembered, dark and fiercely clever.

Roger let loose a snort. “I’m surprised that’s what you’re concerned about,” he said, but his grin left no room for genuine reproach. “Not the fact that you’re blatantly ripping off your customers. And making no effort to hide it.”

Shakky shrugged. “An honest rip-off is better than the alternative. And I’ve never had any complaints.” Then, eyes fairly glittering, “I have nothing to hide,” she said.

Roger cut his eyes to Rayleigh. “Do you believe that?”

Rayleigh smiled. “A wise man would.”

“If he knows what’s good for him,” Shakky agreed. “Not all of them do.”

“I swear I just felt a shiver run up my spine. Were you always this ominous, Shakky?” Roger asked.

She laughed, the sound filling the room, lighter than Roger’s but sweetened with the same, honest mirth. And when her gaze found his there was humour there, bright and familiar. The one that had last seen him counting his coins on the wharf of a tiny seaside village, two years ago.

He hadn’t been actively looking for her. At least, not at first. But he’d heard, a little over a year after they’d parted ways, the first stirrings of rumours, although it had taken a surprising amount of digging to unearth her name amidst all the others that had been given to her. The Broker. The Freedomsmith.  _The Spinner._

She’d garnered a surprising amount of loyalty for her work. Or perhaps it wasn’t so surprising, Rayleigh mused, watching her now where she’d taken a seat on the edge of the mattress, nudging Roger’s legs aside to make space for herself. He thought of the girl who’d spent her days below the deck of their ship, keeping company the people she’d put herself in danger to save — the ones she’d stayed with, after they’d parted ways.

“So, Ray-san,” Shakky said then, smile curving around her cigarette. “Now that you’re awake, would you care to share your version of last night’s events? I’ve only had Straw-chan’s to go by, and I know he exaggerates.”

“Hey,” Roger protested. “I tell _good_ stories. Anything you’ll get from him will read like a mission report. Or a ship’s log.”

“If there’s a story to be had I’d like to hear all sides of it,” Shakky countered smoothly. “Boring and otherwise.”

“Not much more to tell, I’m afraid,” Rayleigh supplied. He sounded about as tired as he felt. “The evidence speaks for itself.”

He looked at Roger then, a thought slipping in past the headache and the pain. “Garp?”

Roger shrugged. “Hasn't turned up. It’s probably for the best—he was _livid_. And I wasn’t even the reason this time, believe it or not.”

“A small marvel,” Shakky mused, and Roger laughed, although it sounded suddenly muffled, Rayleigh thought — like someone had dunked his head underwater. The throbbing hadn’t relented, and it left him a bit dizzy. He wondered idly if he might have a fever.

He had half a mind to ask if she had any painkillers at hand, but his silence must have said enough, because with his next breath Roger was asking, no laughter in his voice now, “You okay, Rayleigh?”

He meant to nod his assent, but the action tugged at the stitches under the bandage, and he grimaced — something else that didn’t go unnoticed, and he felt her hand against his face then, her fingertips light where they brushed against the edge of the bandage.

“Careless man,” Shakky clucked her tongue, the press of her palm cool against his cheek. Yes—definitely a fever. “And here I thought you were always prepared.”

Despite the pain, his smile came without conscious thought. “I seem to have made it out alright, either way.”

Shakky hummed. “Well, you’re in my bed. Braver souls have fought harder battles for that privilege.”

Roger snorted, and Shakky’s grin was a flash of teeth. “Although I don’t suppose that was your intention,” she mused.

“Who knows,” Rayleigh said, and maybe the pain had loosened his tongue, but before he could think twice about it he added, “It might have been.”

“Hooo _kay_ ,” Roger interjected. “I’m pretty sure that’s my cue, as I distinctly remember someone saying you weren’t keen on me watching. And I need to check on the guys, anyway.” He shot Rayleigh a wicked grin, before he pushed himself out of the chair, making for the door. “Mind his back, Shakky, he’s not a young man anymore!”

“Neither are you, Straw-chan,” she called after him, but Roger only laughed, the sound of it trailing behind him out the door and down what sounded like a flight of stairs. Below, Rayleigh caught the muffled chime of a doorbell before the door swung shut, leaving a curious quiet. And it took him a moment to recognise it — not as the kind that usually followed in Roger’s wake, but the one that was _hers_ , and that he remembered from the time she’d spent with the crew, occupying his bunk.

“So,” Shakky said then, after a lull had settled, her smile tilting her eyes at the corners. She’d taken her hand away from his cheek, but Rayleigh felt the weight of it on his collar where she’d flattened her palm over his shirt. “Who decided it would be a good idea for him to grow that moustache out?”

He grinned, and tried not to wince when it tugged at the stitches. “Roger sails his own sea, as he regularly reminds me.”

The look she gave him was coy. “And you?”

He held her gaze. “I follow his lead.”

“Is that what you did?”

He looked at her, the morning sun creeping through the stained glass of the window catching in her eyes, the dark of her pupils seeming to suck up all the light. Seated on the edge of the mattress, she looked at ease, and he might have chalked it up to it being her bedroom, but he’d observed her aboard the ship two years ago and knew it was just part of that way she had about her — of making herself comfortable, wherever she set foot.

A pale curl of smoke rose from the cigarette tucked between her fingers, and the smell brought him back to a cramped ship’s cabin, his shirt on her small frame, and both claimed as her own. And all at once the last two years seemed to wink away into nothing, settling with an ease into his skin, along with the quiet warmth of the sunlight reaching across the sheets of her bed.

And, “No,” he said, remembering the impulse that had grabbed hold of him, a staggeringly youthful thing — the name of the island in his keeping after much searching, and the casual mention he’d made to his captain. And Roger, shrugging his shoulders with a grin, no questions asked, only a _sure, why not?_

He didn’t elaborate what he meant, but she seemed distinctly pleased with the answer, and he had a thought that maybe Roger had told her. But it hardly mattered if she knew that it wasn’t coincidence that had seen him stumbling over her doorstep in the middle of the night. Roger would probably claim that fate had had a hand in things in some way or another, but between the two of them there was a different understanding — that one’s choices meant something, especially on this sea.

“Would you like that drink, Ray-san?” she asked then, as she reached past him to put out her cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand. “Seeing as you came all this way.”

The underlying question wasn’t a subtle thing, but then she wasn’t a subtle woman, and he felt his smile quirk at the touch against his chin, her thumb sketching a path along his bottom lip. “What’s your price? Remember, I already have a tab.”

“For you?” she mused, and he felt the gentle tremor of her laughter in his chest. “I’d settle for a kiss.”

He smiled. “Not a story this time?”

The pain was still pushing up under his skin, the pulse of his blood drumming in time with the headache pressing against his skull, but he ignored both. She was warm where she sat, the curve of her hip sliding under his fingertips as she shifted in her seat, leaning closer.

She tilted her head down, seeking his mouth, and he felt more than saw her smile when she murmured, “Could be one and the same, if you do it right.” Then, “If memory serves, you usually do.”

He laughed, the pain suddenly a far-off thing, and her warmth kinder than the fever when she offered it, small fingers ghosting along his collar, to cup his cheek, and when he flattened his palm against her back she followed—

The bell downstairs chimed again, the soft jingle rising into the quiet, and Rayleigh felt her frustration shudder out in a breath against his mouth.

He opened his good eye, smile still threatening, until he caught the slight furrow to her brow. “What?”

“Straw-chan would make more noise coming in,” Shakky said as she rose from the bed, his hand falling from her back. “I’ll go see who it is.” A smile tugged at her mouth. “Perhaps it’s more trouble knocking down my doors.”

“You’re never in short supply,” Rayleigh offered dryly. “I’m glad to see that hasn’t changed.”

She grinned. “I have all the trouble I need right here,” she quipped. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He was tempted to tell her he wasn’t in a state to be moving around much—or maybe something cheekier, that now that he was in her bed he wasn’t inclined to leave it any time soon—but before he could summon either reply she’d disappeared out the door, leaving Rayleigh with the familiar smell of cigarette smoke, and the lingering warmth of her skin.

And whether it was from the pain or her closeness he wasn't certain, but if he hadn’t been so dazed he might have told her before she’d left, just who’d come knocking on her door this time.

 

—

 

She left him in her bedroom, her heart sitting light in her chest, along with a now familiar tinge of frustration that turned her pace unnaturally brisk as she made for the stairs. And two years might have passed, but that he still managed to reduce her to such a state was at once a delightful discovery, and a little troublesome, although Shakky suspected the latter might be best blamed on the current circumstances, rather than the man in her bed.

And it was fond irritation that made her careless — that made her forget, if only for a moment, just what kind of business she ran, and the kind of people who sometimes walked through her door.

She was halfway down the stairs into the common room when she stopped, taking in the familiar posture — the rigid shoulders and the hard gaze that always seemed to be half-accusing. Although that might just be where Shakky was concerned.

“Monkey-chan,” she said, and for a split second she lamented the fact that she’d left her pistol upstairs. And it was the same lament that slipped past her guard and into her voice, turning her words too wary for the coyness that was her best defence—

“Isn’t this a surprise.”

 


End file.
